By Leica R. Carpo, Publisher
Sunday Inquirer Magazine

AFRICA is a place that will change you. I could not sleep a wink on my first night because a herd of rhinos had decided to sleep underneath our tent and shook the poles of our makeshift home until almost 2 a.m. Although I was dead tired from 26 hours of continuous travel, visions of being some hungry animals’ dinner kept running through my head.

Going to Africa was never on my priority list of vacation places. I prefer to get my cultural fix from more civilized surroundings, like a medieval church or a European museum. I never even watch “Animal Planet,” but somehow I found myself in the middle of the Okavango Delta in Botswana, inside an enormous non-hunting game reserve in Africa and to my surprise, I found myself completely spellbound by the endless blue skies, the exotic wildlife and the constant thrill of the unexpected. This was a no-frills, no-holds-barred view of nature up close and personal. The Sistine chapel may have its charms but it pales compared to watching “the king of the jungle” close in on its prey with its pride of lionesses waiting to pounce nearby. The fierceness of it all was shocking, powerful and absolutely riveting.

Our safari trip consisted of waking up at 4 a.m. every morning for a hearty breakfast and jumping into an open Land Rover and cruising into the bush by 4:45 a.m. Despite the early hour, I found my eyes peeled alertly scanning the fields and hoping to catch a glimpse of predators closing in on their prey. Cameras at the ready, my safari group and I waited patiently often up to three hours on end for a sighting. Normally impatient, I found that there never was a dull moment in this watch. By 10 a.m. we were ready for tea, usually served outdoors and consisting of dried fruits, cookies and hot tea served in thermoses. Lunch followed at noon, often served by a picturesque lake or within sight of a panoramic view of the plains. By sunset we headed back to camp for an early dinner and were back in the jeeps ready for night drives by 9 p.m. We followed the animals’ daily regimen and ate and slept according to their body clock.

We were taught to observe the various paw prints to track the animals into there lair, how to distinguish predator from prey by the gleam in their eyes during night drives, and to listen to the various nature calls from birds to coyotes. The unforgiving food chain that marks everyday life in the African plains may seem harsh to “animal lovers” because “Bambi” is basically the main food group, but it’s a survival necessity for the lions who hunt them and the scavengers who benefit from the scraps.

From almost being capsized by a hippopotamus to being chased by a bunch of naughty monkeys, it seemed that everyday we were on safari was a real life adventure. Someday I vowed to return. In the meantime when the hustle and bustle of city life starts to grate on my nerves, the memory I carry of African blue skies never fails to ease my stress and brighten my day.

For more stories, check out the Sunday Inquirer Magazine’s Favorite Places issue this Sunday, April 13.

By Pennie Azarcon-dela Cruz, Executive Editor
Sunday Inquirer Magazine

SOMETIMES it’s not the place, but the people.

I remember how once, having arrived early in Durban, South Africa for an AIDS conference, I was told that my room was not ready so could I please wait in the lobby? With two hours to kill and a shimmering white beach just across, I asked the concierge if I could leave my baggage and take a stroll by the water’s edge. Almost in one voice in a pitch approaching panic, the front desk staff shook their heads. “Noooo! You can’t go to the beach alone. Wait till there are at least five of you.”

“But it’s just across, and it’s 9 in the morning,” I protested.

The concierge was adamant. “If you step out that door, we shall not be responsible for whatever happens to you,” he said in a clipped British accent that brooked no argument.

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By Ruel S. De Vera, Associate Editor
Sunday Inquirer Magazine

LONDON is ancient and holds its secrets close, just like a wizard treasures his scrolls. Northern California is laid back and cool, like a lover seeking solace and shadow. But Tokyo is not like any other place in the world. Other places are bright, but nowhere near as bright. Other places are garish, but nowhere near as garish. Other cities are advanced, but none of them even come close to Tokyo. It is a city that exists within contradictions, in the netherworld between the past and the future, like an electric Brigadoon.

Unlike Manila, everything works, perhaps too well. You get the feeling that if you don’t work well enough, you will soon be replaced and no one will bat an eyelash. There is an energy in Tokyo’s streets, in the hair of all sorts, in the strange outfits, in the fact that even the baddest boys are conscious of the latest fashions. And when the subway trains open their doors and the school kids come streaming out, it really does look like a scene straight out of “Battle Royale.”

And what would Tokyo be without its toys? Its toy stores are all over-the-top. Its corridors are crammed with a Tokyo icon, the gashapon machines, a vending machine for toys. Of course, everything comes out of vending machines in Tokyo, be it liter-cans of beer or umbrellas. But gashapons are perfectly Tokyo, like pachinko machines that actually pay out.

But if you pause just for a moment and try to listen above the din of clicks and tones, over the hum and whirr, you can hear the sound of Tokyo’s birds, crows and the like, cawing above the streets as they have for centuries. In the city where everything changes, they stay the same.

Yes, it is mindbogglingly expensive. Don’t dare to compute the prices in pesos or you risk fainting from calculating the cost of anything fresh. Yes, there is hardly any English at all. What little you will find is usually rendered in Engrish, the less said of which the better. And yes, you will never truly fit in because we are all gaijin. The Other in a land that never forgets who its true denizens are.

In that sense, Tokyo is the city of the future save that it exists now. Every visit is a dream, but we also must wake from dreams to live our lives.

For more stories, check out the Sunday Inquirer Magazine’s Favorite Places issue this Sunday, April 13.

By Eric S. Caruncho, Staff Writer
Sunday Inquirer Magazine

WHEN the Puerto Rican dealer asked us if we wanted coke, smack or a loose joint, I knew this must be the place. Filipinos feel right at home in New York City, maybe because parts of it resemble the Third World.

It wasn’t just the preponderance of fellow brown-skinned people, the greasy cooking and the shoddy Chinese goods for sale on the sidewalks that remind one of Manila, it was also the potholed streets, crazed taxi drivers, street hookers, and homeless bums sleeping on the sidewalks.

The big thing for Pinoys visiting the Big Apple that year was to secure tickets to “Miss Saigon,” which Lea was still headlining.

F— that.

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