I decided that if I didn't see any whale sharks, then I wanted to see the manta rays which live in the area. I did 2 dives: the first was a shallow dive just to get used to diving again, since when out of practice you tend to spend most of the time looking at dials, your buddy and making sure that you have the proper buoyancy so as to not accidentally kill thousand year-old coral with you fins. The second dive, apart from wanting to see rays was done because of the first
dive.
There were 15 people on the zodiac for the first dive; 3 people doing the last dive of their open water course, myself, 4 instructors, 3 dive masters, a free diver (which means he had no air tanks...he basically was able to hold his breath for a long time) and 3 crew. Two of the dive students I had not met before and the third was an American girl I met several days earlier. The free diver was a guy from Australia who I met the day before and went out for dinner and drinks, and I vaguely knew some of the dive masters and instructors.
The free diver went in first, followed by the divers. The divers followed a buoy line held by one of the dive masters and at the bottome they were split into two groups, each following a different dive master. It was a simple dive with a maximum depth of about 18 meters and we basically made our way around a coral reef. I used up my air quicker than the other people in my group, so I surfaced with one of the assistant dive masters in our group. When I made it back on the zodiac, there was already some of the other group up there, so we just waited for everyone else to surface. By this time, my ears were hurting a bit because I didn't equalise well enough when I first entered the water.
A few minutes later, the remaining divers surfaced and were in the boat, when an uneasy feeling came over everyone. Nobody knew where Brad, the free diver was. Although I wondered why I couldn't see him when I came up, I didn't think much about it since I figured someone in the crew knew where he was and he just wasn't visible from our spot. Someone saw a person walking on the beach, so we figured he got blown by the current, but looking a bit closer we realised it wasn't him. Everybody started looking around for him, but he didn't carry a buoy with him and he went without a dive buddy, so if was in trouble there was nobody to notify the boat.
The instructors and a dive master decided to take whichever tanks had the most air and go look for him. Personally, I thought this had to be an act of desperation; trying to find a lone diver in a large area, not knowing which way the current could have taken him. I found out later that the other students felt the same way. The instructors were not in agreement as to where to look, but in the end decided to fan out from the dive point marked by the GPS. About five minutes later, two of the group surfaced with Brad.
We went to go pick them up, but as we got close we saw that they were holding him up shaking their heads in a "no" gesture. His skin was pale, lips blue, eyes closed and there was bloody water in his mask. The boat pulled up beside them to pull him in. He was big guy and quite heavy so I jumped to help pull him in, reaching down to grab his legs and pull them up over the boat while they pulled him in from the shoulders.
The instructors who found him pretty much knew any first aid attempts would be useless. Everyone else came to the same realisation when we pulled him in because as he was face down, and due to gravity, what seemed like litres of blood and water that filled his lungs rushed out onto the boat deck, where it lingered pretty much until we got the zodiac to shore. What the instructors thought at the time - having found him lying face-down in the sand not far from our entry point - and was later confirmed by the autopsy was that he had suffered from a shallow-depth black-out.
It seems free-divers use a hyper-ventilation technique to help them stay down longer than a regular person normally can. It's a standard thing, but it also puts them into a kind of state of elation. If they misjudge the amount of time they are down there, they can black out on the way back up, and if they go too fast, the air in their lungs expands so rapidly that it causes rupture. And since no-one was there to see it happen, nobody could help him and it was suspected that he had remained under water for about 40 minutes before he was found.
I've never seen a body outside of a casket, and I've never had to pick one up before either. I had read that in situations like this, one of the ways to deal with the shock is to disassociate, or turn off what is going on around them and just concentrate on what had to be done. I thought I would just tune everything out to the point where I wasn't actually aware of what I was doing. But it wasn't like that at all.
The entire time this happened there was no real emotion but I was fully lucid of the events taking place around me. As we came closer to the body, I was thinking that it was definitely Brad, and as we pulled him in I remembered that he was from Brisbane and had attended the same college I did (Though not at the same time since he was about 6 years younger) when I was on exchange at the University of Queensland. And as I reached down to remove the mask from his face and his lungs started to drain, I thought he was dead and there was nothing that could be done about it.
On the way back to shore, I wasn't thinking about the horrific accident and the loss of life. I was thinking that I was hungry, thirsty and my ears were still hurting from the dive. Occasionally, I would take a look back at the body, lying face down near the back of the boat with a small towel covering his head, and all I could think about was how odd the image looked.
It dawned on me after several days that the reason it looked so odd was that the position of the hands at his side didn't seem right. They weren't in a "wrong" position, but I realised that with the arms down to the side of his body as his were, it wouldn't be a comfortable way to lie, and thus you'd never see people in that position.
Later that day, while waiting to see if the police wanted our statements, I still hadn't had any emotional reaction to what happened. It was just a fact, no more. Fine, I had only known Brad a short while, but surely I should at least feel something regarding the loss of life, but nothing came about. I almost envied the American girl who burst into tears almost immediately when Brad was found, as she seemed to at least come to terms with what happened.
Those I spoke to seemed to think it was a natural defense mechanism to have a delayed reaction to the event. Mind you, they hadn't gone through something like this before now, and they all seemed to be moved by the event. Of course, as nasty as it is to think, they might have been faking it as well, behaving in what they thought was the accepted "normal" manner.
Well, it's been almost 2 weeks since Brad drowned and still no reaction. To be honest, it's scaring the living shit out of me! Maybe Bugs Bunny cartoons and watching too many A-Team episodes do desensitise kids to violence. Maybe my reaction is just very delayed because I have a very, very strong defensive mechanism, but how long can a delay be before you are officially a heartless, uncaring bastard? I guess one test would be to watch Bambi again. If I feel a lump in my throat when her mom dies, well then everything is OK, but if I don't…well, I'm not sure I want to find out for fear it's the latter.
What's even more troubling is the fact that my reaction - or lack of it - to Brad's death has pre-occupied and disturbed me more than the death itself. Of course, I could argue that merely writing about the event was my way of grieving, but I'm not sure I believe it. But in the interest of promoting my own saneness, I could probably be convinced.
Monday, March 08, 2010
Mozambique - Part 1
So early in the morning I boarded the bus to Maputo, Mozambique. As far as some of the buses I've seen so far in Africa this was by far not the worst, but it has seen better days. All in all, I thought that for a 10 hour trip it would more than suffice. The only real drawback was that the air conditioning didn't really work all that well, so it might be a bit uncomfortable seeing as it was quite a hot day.
After several hours we crossed into Swaziland, as that was the most direct route from Durban to Maputo. Of course, this meant that we would have to go through customs 4 times during the course of the trip, which probably accounted for 6 of hours of the 10 hour trip. Once in Swaziland, it was good to see that since the last time I passed through, it hasn't stopped raining. That was almost 2 months ago.
At first, this was quite a welcomed change from the heat in South Africa. But almost as if the powers that be heard my sigh of relief, the rain started coming down harder and harder, to the point where it was practically torrential. By this time, we didn't care that the air-conditioning in the bus was on the fritz, we were more worried about the fact that water was leaking into the bus from everywhere and a small river was beginning to flow in the space below our seats, changing direction and speed depending on whether we were accelerating or breaking.
By the time we got to Maputo in the late afternoon, the rain had mostly stopped. Not that it really mattered since all our luggage - which was in the holding bay below Bus River - was soaked. The most we could hope for was that the clothes buried deep in the packs would still be relatively dry, and in fact this was the case. As for the rest of the stuff, We would have to dry it out before it turned into a mouldy mushroom farm, but since the humidity was about 90% and the sky overcast, it seemed it best to let nature take it's course while at the same time do my share to help the burgeoning laundry industry in this country by paying someone else to wash the dank mess afterwards.
As I mentioned in the previous email, Mozambique is a Portuguese-speaking country, and for that all you Portuguese in the audience have a lot to answer for! Why the hell is Monday called "pegunda-feira"? Why isn't it, as one would assume "prima-feira"? Even more importantly, why isn't there a "prima-feira" at all? And saying "prima-feira" is actually Sunday, is not an acceptable answer, because Sunday is called something else.
Not to be overly critical, but look at the other European languages. All the romance languages implied some higher meaning into the days of the week by naming them after Roman deities. Even the French, who do nothing like anybody else just to show their French - as if we couldn't tell from a personal hygiene regiment that consists of a sole weekly shower - followed this tradition.
OK, maybe naming the days after Gods who were notorious for random killing sprees and shagging their own mothers, sisters, daughters, etc. doesn't quite fit into the Portuguese psyche, there were still the Norse gods used in northern European languages. If that still doesn't suite your fancy, you can name the days after Aztec Gods, Hindu Gods, the colours of the rainbow, species of lichen, types of stains...anything! Anything at all would be an improvement to numbering them! But even if this isn't possible, how about at the very least starting with day number 1?
I personally believe that the revolution that took place in Mozambique had less to do with atrocities committed by the Portuguese colonialist government or the human need for self-determination, than it was sheer anger of having to listen to the surrounding countries laugh at their calendar. Had they not pre-ordered all their calendars until the year 2050, I'm sure they would have changed to a more manageable language by now.
Once in Maputo, I decided I should take a walk around to see all the city has to offer. About 10 minutes later I was pretty much done, when, of course, it started to rain. So I made my way to the Franco-Mozambiquan centre, which was by far one of the nicer places in the city, with a pleasant cafe and English and French periodicals and newspapers available for everyone to read. It seems strange for France to do this, since this was a Portuguese colony, but I saw it in Namibia as well, which once belonged to Germany.
I think it's an official part of French foreign policy to go into former colonies of other European countries and build lavish buildings aimed at "cultural exchange", but in essence is just their way of saying "See, if you were our colony, everything would be like this! Not only that, but you only have to shower once a week! Remember that the next time you want to be a colony again" Of course, in their own former colonies, rather than build grand edifices to peaceful understanding, they send the Foreign Legion to kill everyone.
The next day, I decided to go north to Tofo, which has beautiful beaches, the warm Indian Ocean and supposedly some of the best diving in the world. It was another 10 hour bus journey, and when I saw the bus, I started to dream nostalgically of that palace on wheels complete with its own river which brought me to Maputo in the first place. Well, the bus did not break down or crash into anything due to lack of brakes. Nor did it spontaneously combust, but that was probably due to the fact that it was raining more than anything else. It was a bit late in arriving at the destination, but in essence it was not that uncomfortable a ride. On arriving at the bus station in Inhubame, which for some reason always came out as "inhumane" when I said it, I was taken to the backpackers in the back of a Land rover, where I
shared some standing room with 4 other people, 6 cases of beer, food and a huge barrel of diesel fuel which occasionally spilled onto the person in front of me. Not that that stopped her from smoking, though.
The backpackers was made up of an assortment of reed huts. The huts were separated from the sea by large dunes, so that it was only when arriving at the bar/restaurant built on the dune that one could see the ocean. The beach was quite nice and several kilometres long. Apart from a couple of tourists in the water and maybe a few locals walking, it was empty. I found this quite unnerving since beaches are usually teeming with life unless there is something wrong with the place...like sharks. But there didn't seem to be any when I threw the dog in (just kidding...the dog was way to heavy) and after a while of swimming alone and sitting on the beach without having everybody and their brother try to sell you something that neither you nor they would obviously want, it became quite enjoyable.
One of the attractions of Tofo is the chance to go snorkelling with whale sharks. The group that went before us saw 3 or 4 of them and were able to swim with them for over an hour. The group after me, same thing. And when I went out...we saw a marlin. Well part of a marlin fin, at least we convinced ourselves that that’s what it was. We basically did a 2 hour cruise on a zodiac with 9 other people, most of the time looking into the water trying to spot them, even though we had no idea what to look for. Finally we did go snorkelling just for the hell of it. I saw a jelly-fish and some sponges...it would have been easier to just hang around the fish market!
After several hours we crossed into Swaziland, as that was the most direct route from Durban to Maputo. Of course, this meant that we would have to go through customs 4 times during the course of the trip, which probably accounted for 6 of hours of the 10 hour trip. Once in Swaziland, it was good to see that since the last time I passed through, it hasn't stopped raining. That was almost 2 months ago.
At first, this was quite a welcomed change from the heat in South Africa. But almost as if the powers that be heard my sigh of relief, the rain started coming down harder and harder, to the point where it was practically torrential. By this time, we didn't care that the air-conditioning in the bus was on the fritz, we were more worried about the fact that water was leaking into the bus from everywhere and a small river was beginning to flow in the space below our seats, changing direction and speed depending on whether we were accelerating or breaking.
By the time we got to Maputo in the late afternoon, the rain had mostly stopped. Not that it really mattered since all our luggage - which was in the holding bay below Bus River - was soaked. The most we could hope for was that the clothes buried deep in the packs would still be relatively dry, and in fact this was the case. As for the rest of the stuff, We would have to dry it out before it turned into a mouldy mushroom farm, but since the humidity was about 90% and the sky overcast, it seemed it best to let nature take it's course while at the same time do my share to help the burgeoning laundry industry in this country by paying someone else to wash the dank mess afterwards.
As I mentioned in the previous email, Mozambique is a Portuguese-speaking country, and for that all you Portuguese in the audience have a lot to answer for! Why the hell is Monday called "pegunda-feira"? Why isn't it, as one would assume "prima-feira"? Even more importantly, why isn't there a "prima-feira" at all? And saying "prima-feira" is actually Sunday, is not an acceptable answer, because Sunday is called something else.
Not to be overly critical, but look at the other European languages. All the romance languages implied some higher meaning into the days of the week by naming them after Roman deities. Even the French, who do nothing like anybody else just to show their French - as if we couldn't tell from a personal hygiene regiment that consists of a sole weekly shower - followed this tradition.
OK, maybe naming the days after Gods who were notorious for random killing sprees and shagging their own mothers, sisters, daughters, etc. doesn't quite fit into the Portuguese psyche, there were still the Norse gods used in northern European languages. If that still doesn't suite your fancy, you can name the days after Aztec Gods, Hindu Gods, the colours of the rainbow, species of lichen, types of stains...anything! Anything at all would be an improvement to numbering them! But even if this isn't possible, how about at the very least starting with day number 1?
I personally believe that the revolution that took place in Mozambique had less to do with atrocities committed by the Portuguese colonialist government or the human need for self-determination, than it was sheer anger of having to listen to the surrounding countries laugh at their calendar. Had they not pre-ordered all their calendars until the year 2050, I'm sure they would have changed to a more manageable language by now.
Once in Maputo, I decided I should take a walk around to see all the city has to offer. About 10 minutes later I was pretty much done, when, of course, it started to rain. So I made my way to the Franco-Mozambiquan centre, which was by far one of the nicer places in the city, with a pleasant cafe and English and French periodicals and newspapers available for everyone to read. It seems strange for France to do this, since this was a Portuguese colony, but I saw it in Namibia as well, which once belonged to Germany.
I think it's an official part of French foreign policy to go into former colonies of other European countries and build lavish buildings aimed at "cultural exchange", but in essence is just their way of saying "See, if you were our colony, everything would be like this! Not only that, but you only have to shower once a week! Remember that the next time you want to be a colony again" Of course, in their own former colonies, rather than build grand edifices to peaceful understanding, they send the Foreign Legion to kill everyone.
The next day, I decided to go north to Tofo, which has beautiful beaches, the warm Indian Ocean and supposedly some of the best diving in the world. It was another 10 hour bus journey, and when I saw the bus, I started to dream nostalgically of that palace on wheels complete with its own river which brought me to Maputo in the first place. Well, the bus did not break down or crash into anything due to lack of brakes. Nor did it spontaneously combust, but that was probably due to the fact that it was raining more than anything else. It was a bit late in arriving at the destination, but in essence it was not that uncomfortable a ride. On arriving at the bus station in Inhubame, which for some reason always came out as "inhumane" when I said it, I was taken to the backpackers in the back of a Land rover, where I
shared some standing room with 4 other people, 6 cases of beer, food and a huge barrel of diesel fuel which occasionally spilled onto the person in front of me. Not that that stopped her from smoking, though.
The backpackers was made up of an assortment of reed huts. The huts were separated from the sea by large dunes, so that it was only when arriving at the bar/restaurant built on the dune that one could see the ocean. The beach was quite nice and several kilometres long. Apart from a couple of tourists in the water and maybe a few locals walking, it was empty. I found this quite unnerving since beaches are usually teeming with life unless there is something wrong with the place...like sharks. But there didn't seem to be any when I threw the dog in (just kidding...the dog was way to heavy) and after a while of swimming alone and sitting on the beach without having everybody and their brother try to sell you something that neither you nor they would obviously want, it became quite enjoyable.
One of the attractions of Tofo is the chance to go snorkelling with whale sharks. The group that went before us saw 3 or 4 of them and were able to swim with them for over an hour. The group after me, same thing. And when I went out...we saw a marlin. Well part of a marlin fin, at least we convinced ourselves that that’s what it was. We basically did a 2 hour cruise on a zodiac with 9 other people, most of the time looking into the water trying to spot them, even though we had no idea what to look for. Finally we did go snorkelling just for the hell of it. I saw a jelly-fish and some sponges...it would have been easier to just hang around the fish market!
More South Africa
Once the truck tour ended and the bro fled home, I decided it was high time I actually did a bit of independent travelling. The fact that hundreds of people were doing practically the exact same route at the same time is totally irrelevant.
I took a luxury overnight bus (it seems the luxury part comes from the fact that it only broke down once over the course of the trip) from Cape Town to what's known as the Wild Cost, which is sandwiched between some other coasts with various pleasant touristy names like Hibiscus, or Dolphin or Puppy Dog or Happy Meal; the coast names seems to change every 500 meters or so.
Apart from the rugged and undeveloped beaches, the main "wild" thing is the ganja that pretty much permeates the whole area. There is so much of it that the funky, hippy, spiritual crystal stores don't even bother with the ever-present incense to hide the smell of what they're smoking out back, and just burn weed upfront. I think it's actually cheaper than incense here.
Unlike the beaches near Cape Town where the water is cold enough to cause one's testicles to rise up into one's throat - which is a self-preservation reflex triggered by the mere thought of having to go into the water - the waters here a luxuriously warm. But with warm water, also comes many a menace from the sea, which I unfortunately experienced first hand.
While wading through the water, I felt in sharp pain over the front of my ankle and then the pain spread around in a thin line as if a tentacle was wrapped around my leg. Using my advanced powers of
deductive reasoning and examining all the evidence around me, I came to the very exacting conclusion that there was some kind of stingy tentacly thingy wrapped around my leg. I deduced that the only things with stinging tentacles apart from mutant octopus-electric eel hybrids were jellyfish and space aliens; but everyone knows that space aliens can't survive in water without their bio-domes on.
Having come to the realisation that I've been stung by a jelly fish, I quietly went up to shore to wait for the pain to pass. The next person was also stung, but he totally did not have the same level of self control I had, because he went on and on whining and screaming about how it stung and burned. To be fair, he was only about 7 years old, but still. Suck it up, man!
One thing about backpacking is that apart from meeting some interesting people, you meet lots and lots of boring people who look and act in exactly the same manner as everyone else. Unless of course, you're accepted into these inner circles, then all the dreds and similar Celtic tattoos are really cool.
Of course, I wasn't accepted in, but it got me to thinking that with people whose collective IQ could be counted on one hand, if it were multiplied a hundred fold, I could use this to my advantage. I decided I should start a cult and my every wish will be a command to these lemming people. The problem is, I'm too lazy to do all the ground work to start a cult from scratch; you know, with printing all the flyers
and standing in on street corners heckling people; getting the remaining Beatles to come stay at my secluded ranch; buying firearms; etc. So I decided to take a lesson from nature and mimic an already well-known organisation to lure people in.
After some thought, I decided to could start the Jojoba Witnesses, whereby I would profess that salvation could be attained through the delicate, wash, rinse, repeat mantra that would also give shiny, healthy looking hair. Of course, being follicly challenged myself, I'd be more of a "Do as I say, not as I do" type of Fearless Leader.
I must apologize that last couple of paragraphs...but in my defence, it was a long, long ride into Mozambique, and I'm pretty sure the diesel fumes were pumped directly into the bus. But now I'm here, and armed with a Portuguese vocabulary which consists solely of "bacalhao" and "obrigado". At best, I'll never go hungry, and at worst people will think I'm a rather courteous foreigner with a fish fetish.
I took a luxury overnight bus (it seems the luxury part comes from the fact that it only broke down once over the course of the trip) from Cape Town to what's known as the Wild Cost, which is sandwiched between some other coasts with various pleasant touristy names like Hibiscus, or Dolphin or Puppy Dog or Happy Meal; the coast names seems to change every 500 meters or so.
Apart from the rugged and undeveloped beaches, the main "wild" thing is the ganja that pretty much permeates the whole area. There is so much of it that the funky, hippy, spiritual crystal stores don't even bother with the ever-present incense to hide the smell of what they're smoking out back, and just burn weed upfront. I think it's actually cheaper than incense here.
Unlike the beaches near Cape Town where the water is cold enough to cause one's testicles to rise up into one's throat - which is a self-preservation reflex triggered by the mere thought of having to go into the water - the waters here a luxuriously warm. But with warm water, also comes many a menace from the sea, which I unfortunately experienced first hand.
While wading through the water, I felt in sharp pain over the front of my ankle and then the pain spread around in a thin line as if a tentacle was wrapped around my leg. Using my advanced powers of
deductive reasoning and examining all the evidence around me, I came to the very exacting conclusion that there was some kind of stingy tentacly thingy wrapped around my leg. I deduced that the only things with stinging tentacles apart from mutant octopus-electric eel hybrids were jellyfish and space aliens; but everyone knows that space aliens can't survive in water without their bio-domes on.
Having come to the realisation that I've been stung by a jelly fish, I quietly went up to shore to wait for the pain to pass. The next person was also stung, but he totally did not have the same level of self control I had, because he went on and on whining and screaming about how it stung and burned. To be fair, he was only about 7 years old, but still. Suck it up, man!
One thing about backpacking is that apart from meeting some interesting people, you meet lots and lots of boring people who look and act in exactly the same manner as everyone else. Unless of course, you're accepted into these inner circles, then all the dreds and similar Celtic tattoos are really cool.
Of course, I wasn't accepted in, but it got me to thinking that with people whose collective IQ could be counted on one hand, if it were multiplied a hundred fold, I could use this to my advantage. I decided I should start a cult and my every wish will be a command to these lemming people. The problem is, I'm too lazy to do all the ground work to start a cult from scratch; you know, with printing all the flyers
and standing in on street corners heckling people; getting the remaining Beatles to come stay at my secluded ranch; buying firearms; etc. So I decided to take a lesson from nature and mimic an already well-known organisation to lure people in.
After some thought, I decided to could start the Jojoba Witnesses, whereby I would profess that salvation could be attained through the delicate, wash, rinse, repeat mantra that would also give shiny, healthy looking hair. Of course, being follicly challenged myself, I'd be more of a "Do as I say, not as I do" type of Fearless Leader.
I must apologize that last couple of paragraphs...but in my defence, it was a long, long ride into Mozambique, and I'm pretty sure the diesel fumes were pumped directly into the bus. But now I'm here, and armed with a Portuguese vocabulary which consists solely of "bacalhao" and "obrigado". At best, I'll never go hungry, and at worst people will think I'm a rather courteous foreigner with a fish fetish.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Namibia IV: I promise this is the last one
We next arrived to Swakopmund, a holiday resort/adrenaline junkie playground with the sea on one side and sand on the other three. This town was originally built by the Germans and has a lot of original German colonial architecture. With the tourism boom, money flowed in and new boutiques and pedestrian malls were built. Someone thought it would be a good idea to build it in mock German colonial style. This, unfortunately, has thrown the whole place into some kind of bizarre kitsch vortex where reality and bad taste meld into one.
While back in the real world, a kitschy retro-German colonial shopping gallery would be seen as such, especially in contrast to other buildings in the environs. Here, the outside world only reflects the absurdity of the modern constructions. The juxtaposition deconstructs itself and thus reality as we know it to dissolves into the ether, forcing us to stare into the nothingness and meaninglessness of the Void which has replaced it.
As the above paragraph would attest, it is never a good idea to write long emails after going to a modern art gallery.
Around Swakopmund I managed to do some quad-biking on sand dunes hundreds of meters high as well as some sandboarding, which as the name implies, is like snowboarding except on sand. Unfortunately, the name also implies there would be ski-lifts as with snowboarding. Well there weren't! And you would be amazed at how quickly having to hike up a sand dune with boarding boots and a board on your back can dampen the natural enthusiasm of trying out something new. Of all the similarities between the 2 sports, the one that seems to stick out the most is that I'm equally shit at both.
Eventually, I made my way back to Windhoek, the national capital. It reminded me of Amman, Jordan; hot, dry and surrounded by gentle, rolling sand-coloured hills with the occasional speck of green. The difference is the quiet and calm nature of the city whereas Amman seemed quite bustling and hectic.
Not much happens in Windhoek. And one would think least of all when walking back to the hostel from the supermarket with a plastic bag in each hand. While about 100 meters from the hostel I noticed a soldier walking in my general direction. It was difficult not to notice him for two reasons: The first was that for a reason still unknown to me, he was issued the standard camouflage uniform which only really serves its purpose in a forest, or at least in front of a wall randomly splattered with varying shades of green paint. The second was the AK-47 he was casually carrying over his shoulder.
He changed his direction and came towards me. Being the good-natured person that I am I said "hello". He stopped and said something to me, but I didn't understand because it wasn't English. But I did notice that the ammunition clip was in the rifle, so it was loaded.
He pointed to the direction where I was going. I told him I was going to the hostel and pointed to it. He wasn't really paying attention to what I was saying. I think the safety on the rifle was off. He looked at the sun in a manner to illustrate it was hot and then looked at the plastic bags in my hand.
At this point I was thinking I should just say something and walk away, but I was pretty sure that the rifle was still loaded and the safety was still off. Then he said something, which again I could not understand. So I leaned forward with my ear in a way that he would understand to mean that I didn't understand. He said something that I eventually managed to gather was 'cold drink'
He wanted a cold drink. I had a can of coke in one of my bags, which I was saving to when I got to the hostel. Did he now I had the drink? Was it just coincidence that he stopped me or did he see the shape of the can and the slight red tinge where it pressed against the white plastic? What if I told him I didn't have one? Would he search the bags? I couldn't tell him not to. The barracks were just up the street, and I'm pretty sure he could convince me without too much difficulty to follow him at which point I end up in some dingy room containing only a chair with manacles, a car battery and ominous-looking electrodes attached to it.
He wanted MY cold drink. This is coercion and terrorism at its basest level. There I was facing him while behind me - on the other side of the street in his full view - was the Namibian Independence Mural. An independence which my country - wait, which passport was I traveling with, Italian or Canadian? It doesn't matter; they were both involved. There I am in front of the Independence Mural, an independence BOTH my countries helped you negotiate from an oppressive, terrorist, coercive South African regime, and you want to take my coke away from me?
YOU BASTARD!!
Did I say that out loud? I didn't notice any new holes in my chest, so I guess not. So, I reached into the bag, pulled out the can and said, "How about this?". He took it from my hand and opened it as he started turning away. He practically was facing the other way, the AK-47 still over his shoulder, when he said a thick-accented "Thank-you" in an oblivious kind of way that said:
I've got a gun
Now I've got your coke
Na Na Na Na Naa Naa
Arriving at the hostel I felt a need to establish my place in the hierarchy of things after I was forced willfully gave up my liquid nourishment. I felt dirty. I entered the gate and was about to kick the dog when I realized it was a pit-bull so it didn't need a gun. Shit!
I know! I'll by another coke at the hostel, but - and this is the big but - I would buy one of those big 500mL cans! I'll be almost twice as thirst quenched as that soldier!
Ha! That'll teach him!
Then it was back to South Africa, which may have its problems and which I have enjoyed mocking over the course of the trip, but at least the guys armed with shotguns guarding the toilets give you a choice; granted it may not seem like much of a choice if you REALLY have to go, but there will always a bush or a corner which will do in a pinch.
And maybe that's the real lesson to be learned here...but then again I always think that when discussing bodily functions.
While back in the real world, a kitschy retro-German colonial shopping gallery would be seen as such, especially in contrast to other buildings in the environs. Here, the outside world only reflects the absurdity of the modern constructions. The juxtaposition deconstructs itself and thus reality as we know it to dissolves into the ether, forcing us to stare into the nothingness and meaninglessness of the Void which has replaced it.
As the above paragraph would attest, it is never a good idea to write long emails after going to a modern art gallery.
Around Swakopmund I managed to do some quad-biking on sand dunes hundreds of meters high as well as some sandboarding, which as the name implies, is like snowboarding except on sand. Unfortunately, the name also implies there would be ski-lifts as with snowboarding. Well there weren't! And you would be amazed at how quickly having to hike up a sand dune with boarding boots and a board on your back can dampen the natural enthusiasm of trying out something new. Of all the similarities between the 2 sports, the one that seems to stick out the most is that I'm equally shit at both.
Eventually, I made my way back to Windhoek, the national capital. It reminded me of Amman, Jordan; hot, dry and surrounded by gentle, rolling sand-coloured hills with the occasional speck of green. The difference is the quiet and calm nature of the city whereas Amman seemed quite bustling and hectic.
Not much happens in Windhoek. And one would think least of all when walking back to the hostel from the supermarket with a plastic bag in each hand. While about 100 meters from the hostel I noticed a soldier walking in my general direction. It was difficult not to notice him for two reasons: The first was that for a reason still unknown to me, he was issued the standard camouflage uniform which only really serves its purpose in a forest, or at least in front of a wall randomly splattered with varying shades of green paint. The second was the AK-47 he was casually carrying over his shoulder.
He changed his direction and came towards me. Being the good-natured person that I am I said "hello". He stopped and said something to me, but I didn't understand because it wasn't English. But I did notice that the ammunition clip was in the rifle, so it was loaded.
He pointed to the direction where I was going. I told him I was going to the hostel and pointed to it. He wasn't really paying attention to what I was saying. I think the safety on the rifle was off. He looked at the sun in a manner to illustrate it was hot and then looked at the plastic bags in my hand.
At this point I was thinking I should just say something and walk away, but I was pretty sure that the rifle was still loaded and the safety was still off. Then he said something, which again I could not understand. So I leaned forward with my ear in a way that he would understand to mean that I didn't understand. He said something that I eventually managed to gather was 'cold drink'
He wanted a cold drink. I had a can of coke in one of my bags, which I was saving to when I got to the hostel. Did he now I had the drink? Was it just coincidence that he stopped me or did he see the shape of the can and the slight red tinge where it pressed against the white plastic? What if I told him I didn't have one? Would he search the bags? I couldn't tell him not to. The barracks were just up the street, and I'm pretty sure he could convince me without too much difficulty to follow him at which point I end up in some dingy room containing only a chair with manacles, a car battery and ominous-looking electrodes attached to it.
He wanted MY cold drink. This is coercion and terrorism at its basest level. There I was facing him while behind me - on the other side of the street in his full view - was the Namibian Independence Mural. An independence which my country - wait, which passport was I traveling with, Italian or Canadian? It doesn't matter; they were both involved. There I am in front of the Independence Mural, an independence BOTH my countries helped you negotiate from an oppressive, terrorist, coercive South African regime, and you want to take my coke away from me?
YOU BASTARD!!
Did I say that out loud? I didn't notice any new holes in my chest, so I guess not. So, I reached into the bag, pulled out the can and said, "How about this?". He took it from my hand and opened it as he started turning away. He practically was facing the other way, the AK-47 still over his shoulder, when he said a thick-accented "Thank-you" in an oblivious kind of way that said:
I've got a gun
Now I've got your coke
Na Na Na Na Naa Naa
Arriving at the hostel I felt a need to establish my place in the hierarchy of things after I was forced willfully gave up my liquid nourishment. I felt dirty. I entered the gate and was about to kick the dog when I realized it was a pit-bull so it didn't need a gun. Shit!
I know! I'll by another coke at the hostel, but - and this is the big but - I would buy one of those big 500mL cans! I'll be almost twice as thirst quenched as that soldier!
Ha! That'll teach him!
Then it was back to South Africa, which may have its problems and which I have enjoyed mocking over the course of the trip, but at least the guys armed with shotguns guarding the toilets give you a choice; granted it may not seem like much of a choice if you REALLY have to go, but there will always a bush or a corner which will do in a pinch.
And maybe that's the real lesson to be learned here...but then again I always think that when discussing bodily functions.
Namibia III: The sandiest place on Earth
From there, we went off to the Namib desert. This was a place where temperatures could get to 55 C at which point water is closer to steam than ice, to put it into perspective. As with the Kalahari 'desert' in Botswana, when we arrived in this veritable oven - a place where dead trees stand perfectly preserved for 600 years where they grew due to the absolute lack of any moisture whatsoever - it stormed. A lot.
This may just be coincidence, but could I really risk taking that chance? Maybe it was a sign? Maybe the Dutch medical professionals were in on this too? Maybe I was at fault; my mere presence shifting the delicate natural balance achieved over millenia in these harsh environments? Therefore, in order to avoid hail, high winds and potential flash floods, I've decided to cancel my trip to the Sahara next year.
The Namib desert is famous for it's huge red sand dunes that start at the Atlantic coast and stretches over a hundred kilometers inland. The most famous of these (although far from the largest) is the 125 meter-high Dune 45, the most photographed dune in the world. There must be some kind of International Dune Commission keeping these kinds of statistics but frustratingly, they weren't giving out numbers. I wanted to know how many times it has been photographed, which dune had the dubious distinction of being number two, and was it was a close race or did Dune 45 leave the others - excuse the pun - in the dust.
We were to climb the dune to be there for sunrise, because, well, that's just the way things are done. And everybody else had the same idea. The gate to this protected area opened at 5:00 AM. WE would get there before that, to ensure we would be the first in. We got to the gate and waited until it was finally opened by a tired park official and we were off.
We drove like mad and behind us there was a veritable convoy of overland trucks, vans, 4x4s and who knows what else just waiting for us to make a mistake, so they can overtake us and become The First. I thought I heard gunshots as the trucks behind us tried to take out our tires, but I might have just imagined that. We arrived at the foot of the dune, and it was indeed a great sight. Unfortunately we didn't have the luxury of being able to savour it because already the other trucks were coming to a stop, people pouring out of doors, and windows and even being launched by catapult-like devices to give them the extra edge to make it up the dune.
So we climbed and climbed through the soft sand, which was incredibly difficult to manage. Many succumbed to the arduous effort and desert conditions, being left for dead (or maybe just really out of breath) where they fell/sat. The rest clambered on and on, building courage as they saw the ridge level out.
Finally on top, I waited for the sun to rise, and then like a miracle the first rays of the sun peaked over the mountains to the east, engulfing me and the remote dune in a barren desert in light. The only sound to be heard during this time of awe, was the hundreds or so other people on the dune also being equally engulfed; their snapping cameras; idle chitchat; the munching of snacks and in the distance the sounds of more vehicles pulling up and engines running.
What a truly magical moment it was.
From there we went on a desert walk with someone called simply 'Bushman', since nobody really knew his name. Now he wasn't really a bushman, but a big white guy who lived in the desert and I imagine was oblivious that Bushman was a derogatory term used to describe the local Khoisan population from which he probably gained most of his desert knowledge. Now our group didn't actually go with Bushman, but with his Japanese girlfriend. Now here is a guy who grew up in a desert and probably hadn't seen a girl until his mid 30's and he has a Japanese girlfriend? She claims she fell in love with the place when she came to visit. I'm guessing it was more on the lines of her being a mail-order bride who was promised diamonds and gold from beneath the rich earth, but once she arrived, was stripped of her passport and forced into a life of sexual - and tour guiding - servitude.
I'm sure she was giving subtle hints for help in the way she described the flora and fauna which manage to thrive in such a place, but due to the sun and heat, I couldn't make them out. At some point she was definitely spelling out the name of an official in the Japanese consulate who could help her since he was a Ninja master. But I didn't have a pen, and when I tactfully asked her about it afterward in a way that Bushman's many agents in the desert wold not be made suspicious, she pretended not know what I was talking about.
On the other hand, maybe it was just the sun and heat and the fact that I'm hungry while writing this so I've gone uncharacteristically out on a tangent.
This may just be coincidence, but could I really risk taking that chance? Maybe it was a sign? Maybe the Dutch medical professionals were in on this too? Maybe I was at fault; my mere presence shifting the delicate natural balance achieved over millenia in these harsh environments? Therefore, in order to avoid hail, high winds and potential flash floods, I've decided to cancel my trip to the Sahara next year.
The Namib desert is famous for it's huge red sand dunes that start at the Atlantic coast and stretches over a hundred kilometers inland. The most famous of these (although far from the largest) is the 125 meter-high Dune 45, the most photographed dune in the world. There must be some kind of International Dune Commission keeping these kinds of statistics but frustratingly, they weren't giving out numbers. I wanted to know how many times it has been photographed, which dune had the dubious distinction of being number two, and was it was a close race or did Dune 45 leave the others - excuse the pun - in the dust.
We were to climb the dune to be there for sunrise, because, well, that's just the way things are done. And everybody else had the same idea. The gate to this protected area opened at 5:00 AM. WE would get there before that, to ensure we would be the first in. We got to the gate and waited until it was finally opened by a tired park official and we were off.
We drove like mad and behind us there was a veritable convoy of overland trucks, vans, 4x4s and who knows what else just waiting for us to make a mistake, so they can overtake us and become The First. I thought I heard gunshots as the trucks behind us tried to take out our tires, but I might have just imagined that. We arrived at the foot of the dune, and it was indeed a great sight. Unfortunately we didn't have the luxury of being able to savour it because already the other trucks were coming to a stop, people pouring out of doors, and windows and even being launched by catapult-like devices to give them the extra edge to make it up the dune.
So we climbed and climbed through the soft sand, which was incredibly difficult to manage. Many succumbed to the arduous effort and desert conditions, being left for dead (or maybe just really out of breath) where they fell/sat. The rest clambered on and on, building courage as they saw the ridge level out.
Finally on top, I waited for the sun to rise, and then like a miracle the first rays of the sun peaked over the mountains to the east, engulfing me and the remote dune in a barren desert in light. The only sound to be heard during this time of awe, was the hundreds or so other people on the dune also being equally engulfed; their snapping cameras; idle chitchat; the munching of snacks and in the distance the sounds of more vehicles pulling up and engines running.
What a truly magical moment it was.
From there we went on a desert walk with someone called simply 'Bushman', since nobody really knew his name. Now he wasn't really a bushman, but a big white guy who lived in the desert and I imagine was oblivious that Bushman was a derogatory term used to describe the local Khoisan population from which he probably gained most of his desert knowledge. Now our group didn't actually go with Bushman, but with his Japanese girlfriend. Now here is a guy who grew up in a desert and probably hadn't seen a girl until his mid 30's and he has a Japanese girlfriend? She claims she fell in love with the place when she came to visit. I'm guessing it was more on the lines of her being a mail-order bride who was promised diamonds and gold from beneath the rich earth, but once she arrived, was stripped of her passport and forced into a life of sexual - and tour guiding - servitude.
I'm sure she was giving subtle hints for help in the way she described the flora and fauna which manage to thrive in such a place, but due to the sun and heat, I couldn't make them out. At some point she was definitely spelling out the name of an official in the Japanese consulate who could help her since he was a Ninja master. But I didn't have a pen, and when I tactfully asked her about it afterward in a way that Bushman's many agents in the desert wold not be made suspicious, she pretended not know what I was talking about.
On the other hand, maybe it was just the sun and heat and the fact that I'm hungry while writing this so I've gone uncharacteristically out on a tangent.
Namibia Part II: Ol' McSurfontein had a farm...
Firstly my apologies for taking so long to get this post up. Secondly I hope my readers (yes both of you) are having a good summer.
OK, 'nough of that. I didn't travel through countries risking the chance of catching bizarre diseases - that simultaneously make you itch while your cuticles fall out so you can't scratch, or giving you lock-jaw and chronic urge to yawn which, well I don't have to describe the potential horrors, - just to send you good wishes.
Our first stop in Namibia was actually still in South Africa, along the Orange River. Although the river is the official border, South Africa still maintains control of the cultivated swath of land on the other side. Apparantly, Namibia only really begins at the barren, deserted land too far from the river to be effectively cultivated. I guess that means some of the produce imported into Namibia has to first leave Namibia for SA where they can put that little "Proudly South African" sticker on it, and then send it back again where it's probably sold back to people who work on those farms in the first place. Ahh, the wonders of international trade!
There's not much to see along the Orange River, so as any good overlander keen maximizing their sensory stimulation so as to absorb the very essence of the place which surrounds them, I went to the bar.
I began talking to a local guy, who wasn't really a local guy. Originally he was from the Cape but had to leave when he lost his job in 1994. He was in the military but was not allowed to continue because of some of the various roles he had, none of which he could tell me about. How could I resist talking to someone with such a rich and vibrant history?
The question though, is what to talk about: Quantum physics? Near East religions? No, those were to prone to endless debate and almost violent visceral responses. I needed something more mundane; the conversational equivalent to elevator music. I know: social and political changes since 1994 and how they have helped/hindered South Africa.
It would promise to be an entertaining night.
It started off PC enough. Black empowerment was a long time incoming and now that it's here, everything must be done to promote and nurture it. There's profit to be had by all in the New South Africa.
Fair enough...a bit more prodding and poking about his farm, his workers and how he views them and that started a little trickle of truth. After his 5th or so drink he very seriously and carefully pointed out that the old regime, as bad as everyone made it out to be, had actually built South Africa's modern infrastructure which rivals even Europe.
'Yeah, but it was built practically on the on the back of slave labour.’, says I.
Long pause.
'So what if it was? That's the natural course of things when one society comes to dominate over another. It happens all the time all over the world, but nobody seems to mind except when it applies to South Africa'
'And another thing...'
And then came the flood. This was the same 'And another thing' thing I've over and over again whether it was on the subject of Africans, Asians, Indians, the poor, the left handed, the early morning risers...anybody who was not "like us". Names and particular details were changed, but were essentially the same half-truths, anecdotes taken out of context and empty sayings disguised as wisdom. As disturbing as it was, I left with a perverse sense of gratification so that if I was prone to talking to myself - Larium induced conversations spoken to in Esperanto excluded - I could say "See, I told you so". Although, admittedly, I wouldn't reply so as to not give myself a swollen head.
What really struck me was the obsession with "land", who had it, who had to give some up, who it was given to and what was being done with it. Fair enough, this guy is a farmer and land is important. But every time he said the word it got sharper, more abrupt and more intense, to the point that he hissed it through clenched teeth. I was reminded of Gollum from the Lord of the Rings, mainly because I am a victim of pop culture and couldn't think of a more intellectual comparison. It might have helped the comparison if this guy would have at least looked like Gollum, but then the conversation may have been steered in the direction of the difficulty in finding really large contact lenses or the virtues sushi, and I never would have had a chance to ask the other questions.
But of course, it wasn't all serious talk..there was room for some lighter subjects as well. Like fashion, for example. I noticed that unlike high-socked, mullet-wearing porno-stache sporting boers I met when first entering South Africa, this guy sported no socks - his friends had no shoes at all - and if anything his thin little stache belonged more on a pimp...or the singer from The Kinks.
When I asked about this rather huge discrepancy, he began chuckling and pointed out that these people were the subject of ridicule for the Afrikaaners as well. After all, what can be expected from those backwards English South Africans? I wanted to point out that the people in question spoke Afrikaans to each other and the barmen and their dogs, and only spoke English for our benefit.
But I was happy enough just not to have to see another mullet, so I let it slide.
OK, 'nough of that. I didn't travel through countries risking the chance of catching bizarre diseases - that simultaneously make you itch while your cuticles fall out so you can't scratch, or giving you lock-jaw and chronic urge to yawn which, well I don't have to describe the potential horrors, - just to send you good wishes.
Our first stop in Namibia was actually still in South Africa, along the Orange River. Although the river is the official border, South Africa still maintains control of the cultivated swath of land on the other side. Apparantly, Namibia only really begins at the barren, deserted land too far from the river to be effectively cultivated. I guess that means some of the produce imported into Namibia has to first leave Namibia for SA where they can put that little "Proudly South African" sticker on it, and then send it back again where it's probably sold back to people who work on those farms in the first place. Ahh, the wonders of international trade!
There's not much to see along the Orange River, so as any good overlander keen maximizing their sensory stimulation so as to absorb the very essence of the place which surrounds them, I went to the bar.
I began talking to a local guy, who wasn't really a local guy. Originally he was from the Cape but had to leave when he lost his job in 1994. He was in the military but was not allowed to continue because of some of the various roles he had, none of which he could tell me about. How could I resist talking to someone with such a rich and vibrant history?
The question though, is what to talk about: Quantum physics? Near East religions? No, those were to prone to endless debate and almost violent visceral responses. I needed something more mundane; the conversational equivalent to elevator music. I know: social and political changes since 1994 and how they have helped/hindered South Africa.
It would promise to be an entertaining night.
It started off PC enough. Black empowerment was a long time incoming and now that it's here, everything must be done to promote and nurture it. There's profit to be had by all in the New South Africa.
Fair enough...a bit more prodding and poking about his farm, his workers and how he views them and that started a little trickle of truth. After his 5th or so drink he very seriously and carefully pointed out that the old regime, as bad as everyone made it out to be, had actually built South Africa's modern infrastructure which rivals even Europe.
'Yeah, but it was built practically on the on the back of slave labour.’, says I.
Long pause.
'So what if it was? That's the natural course of things when one society comes to dominate over another. It happens all the time all over the world, but nobody seems to mind except when it applies to South Africa'
'And another thing...'
And then came the flood. This was the same 'And another thing' thing I've over and over again whether it was on the subject of Africans, Asians, Indians, the poor, the left handed, the early morning risers...anybody who was not "like us". Names and particular details were changed, but were essentially the same half-truths, anecdotes taken out of context and empty sayings disguised as wisdom. As disturbing as it was, I left with a perverse sense of gratification so that if I was prone to talking to myself - Larium induced conversations spoken to in Esperanto excluded - I could say "See, I told you so". Although, admittedly, I wouldn't reply so as to not give myself a swollen head.
What really struck me was the obsession with "land", who had it, who had to give some up, who it was given to and what was being done with it. Fair enough, this guy is a farmer and land is important. But every time he said the word it got sharper, more abrupt and more intense, to the point that he hissed it through clenched teeth. I was reminded of Gollum from the Lord of the Rings, mainly because I am a victim of pop culture and couldn't think of a more intellectual comparison. It might have helped the comparison if this guy would have at least looked like Gollum, but then the conversation may have been steered in the direction of the difficulty in finding really large contact lenses or the virtues sushi, and I never would have had a chance to ask the other questions.
But of course, it wasn't all serious talk..there was room for some lighter subjects as well. Like fashion, for example. I noticed that unlike high-socked, mullet-wearing porno-stache sporting boers I met when first entering South Africa, this guy sported no socks - his friends had no shoes at all - and if anything his thin little stache belonged more on a pimp...or the singer from The Kinks.
When I asked about this rather huge discrepancy, he began chuckling and pointed out that these people were the subject of ridicule for the Afrikaaners as well. After all, what can be expected from those backwards English South Africans? I wanted to point out that the people in question spoke Afrikaans to each other and the barmen and their dogs, and only spoke English for our benefit.
But I was happy enough just not to have to see another mullet, so I let it slide.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Namibia Part I
We - the bro and I, that is - decided to take our trip to Namibia with a different operator partly so as to not have to say that all of Africa was seen through a single window, but mainly it was because after the huge amount of money that we already lined their pockets with, they were unwilling to give us a discount for a trip that was already running. So we joined a South African-run truck instead.
Apart from the mechanical and technical differences with the truck, whose benefits and deficits are debatable, there was a definite cultural change on this truck as well. First and foremost was the age and mentality difference. Most of the passengers were much younger than those on the previous truck and rather than being the typical overland traveler, they had been in southern Africa for an extended period doing either university exchanges or internships. The others were mostly older tourists on vacation, and surprisingly none were British.
I might as well get the quirky ones out of the way first, so where better to start than with the Germans. Heading off this group was a used car salesman with a Rod Stewart haircut, black socks, tan shoes, a gold cigarette case and the only person on an overland ever to bring a hairdryer. Next was an Austrian woman who didn't say much since she was too busy chain-smoking what smelled like pure tar cigarettes with a hint of bog. Then there was an agreeable IT guy who said even less. We quickly came to realize he was pretty much interested in just being left alone, for which coming on a confined overland trip made perfect sense. Then there were the German sisters, who were pleasant enough, and before you ask, no stories involving the Italo-Canadian brothers and the German sisters came about; at least none of the kind that my man Mohammed - if that was indeed his real name - in Zanzibar would have liked pictorially told in a glossy magazine. Lastly there was the older lady who was somewhere between 70 and 150 years old and constantly wore one of those scarves and dark oval glasses that anarchists or Nazi war criminals wear to avoid detection.
The second major group was the Flemish/Dutch contingent. First were the two Dutch doctors/med students doing their internships. Now I'm not sure what it is with female Dutch medical professionals and truck tours, but I'm starting to think it's not a co-incidence. Either it's some kind local cultural thing just like wooden shoes or window shopping for hookers, except it pertains solely to the medical subculture. Or, more probably, like rain of fire or anything at all running on time in Africa, this is meant to be a sign from a higher power.
Finally, there was a couple of friendly Danish gymnastics teachers coming back from a training tour in Japan. Now this was not competitive gymnastics, but only done for entertainment, and apparently it's a huge thing in Denmark. It evolved I'm told - or I made up, you take your pick - from the traditional court fun and buffoonery which included among other such sports, oh I don't know, midget tossing. As modern attitudes changed and proper nutrition and medicine made finding appropriate midgets more and more difficult (as any midget thrower will tell you, it's all about size and shape. Just like skipping stones on water) only the tumbling survived to the modern day.
Then came the two like - and I use the word 'like' in the most sarcastic mode possible - American students who would alternate hosting a single brain cell depending on who had the task of opening a beer or rolling a joint. (I know, I know, I started the previous paragraph with “finally”. What can I tell you? Sometimes people lie in their blogs!)
Nevertheless, these two did manage to be remotely entertaining in a 'My Daddy is super rich' American student kind of way and surprisingly pleasant for the most part. Thus, with these and my literary and vocally gifted bro being the only native English speakers, the chance of having critical discussions comparing and contrasting the use of the metaphor of pickled herring in late Vicorian literature as device to illustrate the intrinsic conscience-heightening functions of the lower bowel in the face of mentally constipating face of the industrial revolution was definitely out of the question.
Then again, both the Danes and Swedes are fond of herring, so maybe...
Right...I'm going to have to finish this and actually get to the point where we get to Namibia later.
Apart from the mechanical and technical differences with the truck, whose benefits and deficits are debatable, there was a definite cultural change on this truck as well. First and foremost was the age and mentality difference. Most of the passengers were much younger than those on the previous truck and rather than being the typical overland traveler, they had been in southern Africa for an extended period doing either university exchanges or internships. The others were mostly older tourists on vacation, and surprisingly none were British.
I might as well get the quirky ones out of the way first, so where better to start than with the Germans. Heading off this group was a used car salesman with a Rod Stewart haircut, black socks, tan shoes, a gold cigarette case and the only person on an overland ever to bring a hairdryer. Next was an Austrian woman who didn't say much since she was too busy chain-smoking what smelled like pure tar cigarettes with a hint of bog. Then there was an agreeable IT guy who said even less. We quickly came to realize he was pretty much interested in just being left alone, for which coming on a confined overland trip made perfect sense. Then there were the German sisters, who were pleasant enough, and before you ask, no stories involving the Italo-Canadian brothers and the German sisters came about; at least none of the kind that my man Mohammed - if that was indeed his real name - in Zanzibar would have liked pictorially told in a glossy magazine. Lastly there was the older lady who was somewhere between 70 and 150 years old and constantly wore one of those scarves and dark oval glasses that anarchists or Nazi war criminals wear to avoid detection.
The second major group was the Flemish/Dutch contingent. First were the two Dutch doctors/med students doing their internships. Now I'm not sure what it is with female Dutch medical professionals and truck tours, but I'm starting to think it's not a co-incidence. Either it's some kind local cultural thing just like wooden shoes or window shopping for hookers, except it pertains solely to the medical subculture. Or, more probably, like rain of fire or anything at all running on time in Africa, this is meant to be a sign from a higher power.
The remaining were Flemish students and hangers on, which included two guys named Tom, one who burned quite badly in the sun and one who didn't; a twenty-something law student who smoked a pipe, espoused the virtues of Belgian wine (yes, wine not beer) and ended every sentence with an inflection making everything sound somewhat like a question. This manner of speaking was quite contagious and eventually infected the entire language group. Hopefully they will thwart this rare vocal disorder when he returns home before it spreads to the entire country. On the other hand, it could at least make communication around the European Parliament and NATO headquarters entertaining, if still useless. Oh, and his girlfriend was there. She was immune to this somehow.
Then there were the father-and-son Swedish team. They were from some town called something 'koping' which wasn't the same something 'koping' that I new, but the fact that I new of a something 'koping' at all put me in their good books. The father was a funny and jovial guy who quietly drank more than anybody else on the truck, while his son did push-ups everywhere; in front of his tent, on the boat going down the Orange river, in the hottest desert in the world. He only ever did about 3 push-ups at a time, as opposed to anything resembling a workout or training regiment. Perhaps they were super-concentrated Swedish push-ups like the Vikings used to do before devastating a Scottish town or sailing to Newfoundland, where each one contained the power of 100 push-ups but this subtlety was invisible to the untrained eye. Kind of like a power nap, I guess. I meant to ask him about this, but I was afraid he might not appreciate such an inquisition…and you don't want to mess with someone who can do 300 push-ups in 5 seconds!Finally, there was a couple of friendly Danish gymnastics teachers coming back from a training tour in Japan. Now this was not competitive gymnastics, but only done for entertainment, and apparently it's a huge thing in Denmark. It evolved I'm told - or I made up, you take your pick - from the traditional court fun and buffoonery which included among other such sports, oh I don't know, midget tossing. As modern attitudes changed and proper nutrition and medicine made finding appropriate midgets more and more difficult (as any midget thrower will tell you, it's all about size and shape. Just like skipping stones on water) only the tumbling survived to the modern day.
Then came the two like - and I use the word 'like' in the most sarcastic mode possible - American students who would alternate hosting a single brain cell depending on who had the task of opening a beer or rolling a joint. (I know, I know, I started the previous paragraph with “finally”. What can I tell you? Sometimes people lie in their blogs!)
Nevertheless, these two did manage to be remotely entertaining in a 'My Daddy is super rich' American student kind of way and surprisingly pleasant for the most part. Thus, with these and my literary and vocally gifted bro being the only native English speakers, the chance of having critical discussions comparing and contrasting the use of the metaphor of pickled herring in late Vicorian literature as device to illustrate the intrinsic conscience-heightening functions of the lower bowel in the face of mentally constipating face of the industrial revolution was definitely out of the question.
Then again, both the Danes and Swedes are fond of herring, so maybe...
Right...I'm going to have to finish this and actually get to the point where we get to Namibia later.
Monday, December 29, 2008
South Africa - Part II
After Jo-burg we headed to the famous Kruger national park. Elephants, lions, rhinos, bla bla bla. It's amazing how one can become blasé about something that just a few weeks ago was utterly fascinating.
From there we headed to Swaziland, in the hopes of finding some Swazis, I guess. What we did fine instead was rainy, cold lush hills perpetually covered in fog.
It was like living in a cloud, or somewhere in the Northern UK. Now you may think that this analogy is unfair, seeing as I've never been to the Northern UK (at the time of original writing) but the first three towns we passed when we came out of Swaziland (without any Swazis to show for it, no less)were called Belfast, Dundee and Newcastle.
Coincidence? I think not!
Back in SA, we started making our way to Lesotho. Along the way, we had a chance to stop and meet some true Afrikaans farmers...boers; very friendly, amiable people who were very welcoming to us. But there is a dark side: shorts worn with knee-high socks. Mullet haircuts...even on kids, which I'm pretty sure is in violation of UN children's rights.
And big bushy mustaches (this time, at least, the children were spared). It's like being time-warped back into the 70's! I'm now convinced that the Zulu wars were not fought over land and farming rights, but as a matter of fashion sense. Unfortunately, the Zulus lost.
Although Apartheid is no longer around, the effects are still quite evident. The economic divide between white, coloured and black are quite stark. There is also a great divide in opinions about where the country is going. Some see Mandela as a hero who pointed SA in the right direction and acts as a moral guide as well. Others feel it necessary to point out that he was jailed as a terrorist for detonating a bomb in a train station and started sending the country into a tailspin.
Those who have foreign passports have left or are keeping them very close at hand for when they are going to have to flee. Those who don't have a choice...have hope. And lots of it! It really does transcend race and economic boundaries, and maybe these are the only opinions that really matter since they'll be the ones who will make the necessary sacrifices.
I have to point out that the coming into SA also had a very significant effect on The Truck as a whole. In Vic Falls, we had a change of groups as new people came and others left. The rather smallish group which went from Vic Falls to Jo-Burg consisted of merry English holiday makers with tons o' cash to spend on themselves and their new Truck Mates. The rest of us, being the very accommodating people that we are, allowed them. And merriment was had by all.
In Jo-burg, a very different crowd joined us. Again a nurse...and Dutch. I'm not sure if she knew about our previous Dutch nurses or if her constitution would tend towards a Dutch Nurse Sandwich, but in my mind it already had. It's amazing the lesbian orgy scenarios which one can derive with countless hours of driving around...but maybe that's just me.
There was an additional Dutch person and 2 Flemish people as well, so Dutch became the second official language of The Truck, which helped in trying to figure out Afrikaans. There was a quack American, who we forgot in some small, nameless town/toilet break. It was only after 90 minutes of driving that his tent mate noticed he wasn't there. That's the kind of presence this guy has. We did finally pick him up, but by then end of the trip, there were more than a few who felt it would have been better if we hadn't.
There was another Canadian - a Chaos theory something or other PhD student; a Dubliner who thought that the rest of Ireland was inhabited by "Culchies"; an octogenarian from a small place near some other small place in northern England who spoke, I kid you not, without ever using consonants. I didn't understand a word he said for the whole trip. We got along quite well.
Finally there were a group of Welsh, one of whom was the former mayor of Cardiff. It's true! I can't tell you he is, but he is the one mayor without multiple double L's and random Y's in his name. C'mon, there can't be more than a handful of people in Wales who can fit that description.
Oh...and my brother joined The Truck. Since I'm too lazy to take him off this distribution list, I won't say anythng about him.
Anyhoo, long story short, we went through Lesotho, which was very nice and drove along the garden route to Cape Town, climbed Table Mountain went on wine tours in Stellenbosch stopped in some random places along the way and it was all very, very nice.
Next it’s off to Namibia tomorrow morning to roast in 45°C heat.
Oh, and some photos if you're not already bored:
http://www.ofoto.com/I.jsp?c=9s4cmvvd.99y4ydh5&x=0&y=bythvn
From there we headed to Swaziland, in the hopes of finding some Swazis, I guess. What we did fine instead was rainy, cold lush hills perpetually covered in fog.
It was like living in a cloud, or somewhere in the Northern UK. Now you may think that this analogy is unfair, seeing as I've never been to the Northern UK (at the time of original writing) but the first three towns we passed when we came out of Swaziland (without any Swazis to show for it, no less)were called Belfast, Dundee and Newcastle.
Coincidence? I think not!
Back in SA, we started making our way to Lesotho. Along the way, we had a chance to stop and meet some true Afrikaans farmers...boers; very friendly, amiable people who were very welcoming to us. But there is a dark side: shorts worn with knee-high socks. Mullet haircuts...even on kids, which I'm pretty sure is in violation of UN children's rights.
And big bushy mustaches (this time, at least, the children were spared). It's like being time-warped back into the 70's! I'm now convinced that the Zulu wars were not fought over land and farming rights, but as a matter of fashion sense. Unfortunately, the Zulus lost.
Although Apartheid is no longer around, the effects are still quite evident. The economic divide between white, coloured and black are quite stark. There is also a great divide in opinions about where the country is going. Some see Mandela as a hero who pointed SA in the right direction and acts as a moral guide as well. Others feel it necessary to point out that he was jailed as a terrorist for detonating a bomb in a train station and started sending the country into a tailspin.
Those who have foreign passports have left or are keeping them very close at hand for when they are going to have to flee. Those who don't have a choice...have hope. And lots of it! It really does transcend race and economic boundaries, and maybe these are the only opinions that really matter since they'll be the ones who will make the necessary sacrifices.
I have to point out that the coming into SA also had a very significant effect on The Truck as a whole. In Vic Falls, we had a change of groups as new people came and others left. The rather smallish group which went from Vic Falls to Jo-Burg consisted of merry English holiday makers with tons o' cash to spend on themselves and their new Truck Mates. The rest of us, being the very accommodating people that we are, allowed them. And merriment was had by all.
In Jo-burg, a very different crowd joined us. Again a nurse...and Dutch. I'm not sure if she knew about our previous Dutch nurses or if her constitution would tend towards a Dutch Nurse Sandwich, but in my mind it already had. It's amazing the lesbian orgy scenarios which one can derive with countless hours of driving around...but maybe that's just me.
There was an additional Dutch person and 2 Flemish people as well, so Dutch became the second official language of The Truck, which helped in trying to figure out Afrikaans. There was a quack American, who we forgot in some small, nameless town/toilet break. It was only after 90 minutes of driving that his tent mate noticed he wasn't there. That's the kind of presence this guy has. We did finally pick him up, but by then end of the trip, there were more than a few who felt it would have been better if we hadn't.
There was another Canadian - a Chaos theory something or other PhD student; a Dubliner who thought that the rest of Ireland was inhabited by "Culchies"; an octogenarian from a small place near some other small place in northern England who spoke, I kid you not, without ever using consonants. I didn't understand a word he said for the whole trip. We got along quite well.
Finally there were a group of Welsh, one of whom was the former mayor of Cardiff. It's true! I can't tell you he is, but he is the one mayor without multiple double L's and random Y's in his name. C'mon, there can't be more than a handful of people in Wales who can fit that description.
Oh...and my brother joined The Truck. Since I'm too lazy to take him off this distribution list, I won't say anythng about him.
Anyhoo, long story short, we went through Lesotho, which was very nice and drove along the garden route to Cape Town, climbed Table Mountain went on wine tours in Stellenbosch stopped in some random places along the way and it was all very, very nice.
Next it’s off to Namibia tomorrow morning to roast in 45°C heat.
Oh, and some photos if you're not already bored:
http://www.ofoto.com/I.jsp?c=9s4cmvvd.99y4ydh5&x=0&y=bythvn
South Africa
After driving through the freezing cold wind of the Kalahari - as one expects when driving through the midday sun of a desert - we arrived in South Africa. Almost magically, everything was, well green. It's almost as if they decided the border based on where their lawn finally died.
Driving on to Jo-burg was like driving through the small-towns in the Southern US, except on the wrong side of the road. Of course, the analogy stops once we actually got into the towns, because they seemed to be just full of people hanging around listlessly looking at us. Aparthied may be removed from the political landscape, but the effects and economic divisions - which usually run along racial lines - are still very visibly there.
On second thought, I guess it's much like most small towns in the southern US.
There was a sense of foreboding coming into Jo-burg. Everyone had heard the stories about the rampant crime in the place, so everyone was on the lookout. Every street corner was a potential car-jacking waiting to happen. Even if you didn't have a car, they will supply one for you - that's how efficient they are!
Even the locals we spoke to gave us advice on how not to look like a tourist and, therefore a target. One person at the ATM said "There's an edge to living in Jo'burg...if something bad is going to happen to you, well then it's going to happen". The only people who painted a pretty picture were those working in the tourist industry; and even then the best they could do was "All big cities have crime".
It didn't help things to see every building bigger than a Rubik's Cube to be walled in and topped with electric wires which I imagine are a bit more harmful to people than they are to the elephants which may encounter such fences in a game park. If the farmer in Robert Frost's "Mending Wall" was right in saying "Good fences make good neighbours", then these must be the best damn neighbours since the Mongols and the Chinese!
(I would just like to digress at this point and mention how pompously self-satisfied I am with the literarily insightful and historically sardonic analogy above :-))
Also if there wasn't a sign that said "Armed Response" posted on the wall, there was an armed guard already there. Even the guy who collects the 30 cents to use the toilet at the petrol station had a shotgun. Now he didn't have a uniform or anything, so he may just have been some guy who happened to be there - and happened to be armed to the teeth - but you know what? For 30 cents, I wasn't going to potentially piss him off by asking!
But in all fairness, after all the fear and paranoia about being in Jo-burg...nothing happened. And nobody saw anything happen. Everyone had a good time, which would have been even better if everyone had loosened up a little.
A visit to Jo-Burg would not be complete (I must apologize for plagiarizing every single tourist pamphlet on the planet with this opening) without visiting Soweto township and the Aparthied museum; not at all what I expected. The township is massive and also includes the largest hospital complex in the Southern Hemisphere (which is mostly staffed by Cuban doctors. This, I think is the affect of Globalisation on the brain-drain. As SA doctors flee to Canada and the UK, they grab them from Cuba. Now where Cuba is expected to get doctors from? I don't know. But any conspiracy theorist worth his salt will be pointing a finger at the US and the Monroe Doctrine for Cuba’s woes.
Unlike the vast favelas of places like Rio, here the housing ranges from at the very lowest shoe boxes, to rather impressive mansions at the other end of the spectrum. The majority of people live in tiny houses somewhere in between. Better neighbourhoods are divided from poorer ones simply by a road. There are nine entrances to Soweto (SOuth WEstern TOwnship, in case you're wondering) and during the time of Apartheid, there was no mention of it on any road signs or maps. It practically wasn't there...except for the fact that millions lived there.
Although everyone on the tour was impressed by the level of cleanliness, order and pride within Soweto, there was still a disturbing aspect to it, and to the numerous other townships (which seemed to be much more dilapidated than Soweto) we passed along the way. This was because all the townships - instead of having normal street lighting which would give them a warmer, community aspect - were interspersed with huge floodlight towers which I'm sure were more to the benefit of police raids than the community below. They made the townships seem like huge prison yards rather than communities...and maybe that was the point.
Driving on to Jo-burg was like driving through the small-towns in the Southern US, except on the wrong side of the road. Of course, the analogy stops once we actually got into the towns, because they seemed to be just full of people hanging around listlessly looking at us. Aparthied may be removed from the political landscape, but the effects and economic divisions - which usually run along racial lines - are still very visibly there.
On second thought, I guess it's much like most small towns in the southern US.
There was a sense of foreboding coming into Jo-burg. Everyone had heard the stories about the rampant crime in the place, so everyone was on the lookout. Every street corner was a potential car-jacking waiting to happen. Even if you didn't have a car, they will supply one for you - that's how efficient they are!
Even the locals we spoke to gave us advice on how not to look like a tourist and, therefore a target. One person at the ATM said "There's an edge to living in Jo'burg...if something bad is going to happen to you, well then it's going to happen". The only people who painted a pretty picture were those working in the tourist industry; and even then the best they could do was "All big cities have crime".
It didn't help things to see every building bigger than a Rubik's Cube to be walled in and topped with electric wires which I imagine are a bit more harmful to people than they are to the elephants which may encounter such fences in a game park. If the farmer in Robert Frost's "Mending Wall" was right in saying "Good fences make good neighbours", then these must be the best damn neighbours since the Mongols and the Chinese!
(I would just like to digress at this point and mention how pompously self-satisfied I am with the literarily insightful and historically sardonic analogy above :-))
Also if there wasn't a sign that said "Armed Response" posted on the wall, there was an armed guard already there. Even the guy who collects the 30 cents to use the toilet at the petrol station had a shotgun. Now he didn't have a uniform or anything, so he may just have been some guy who happened to be there - and happened to be armed to the teeth - but you know what? For 30 cents, I wasn't going to potentially piss him off by asking!
But in all fairness, after all the fear and paranoia about being in Jo-burg...nothing happened. And nobody saw anything happen. Everyone had a good time, which would have been even better if everyone had loosened up a little.
A visit to Jo-Burg would not be complete (I must apologize for plagiarizing every single tourist pamphlet on the planet with this opening) without visiting Soweto township and the Aparthied museum; not at all what I expected. The township is massive and also includes the largest hospital complex in the Southern Hemisphere (which is mostly staffed by Cuban doctors. This, I think is the affect of Globalisation on the brain-drain. As SA doctors flee to Canada and the UK, they grab them from Cuba. Now where Cuba is expected to get doctors from? I don't know. But any conspiracy theorist worth his salt will be pointing a finger at the US and the Monroe Doctrine for Cuba’s woes.
Unlike the vast favelas of places like Rio, here the housing ranges from at the very lowest shoe boxes, to rather impressive mansions at the other end of the spectrum. The majority of people live in tiny houses somewhere in between. Better neighbourhoods are divided from poorer ones simply by a road. There are nine entrances to Soweto (SOuth WEstern TOwnship, in case you're wondering) and during the time of Apartheid, there was no mention of it on any road signs or maps. It practically wasn't there...except for the fact that millions lived there.
Although everyone on the tour was impressed by the level of cleanliness, order and pride within Soweto, there was still a disturbing aspect to it, and to the numerous other townships (which seemed to be much more dilapidated than Soweto) we passed along the way. This was because all the townships - instead of having normal street lighting which would give them a warmer, community aspect - were interspersed with huge floodlight towers which I'm sure were more to the benefit of police raids than the community below. They made the townships seem like huge prison yards rather than communities...and maybe that was the point.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Arriving into Botswana from Zambia...
the first thing you notice is that the roads are paved...flat; which is a major distinction to the mountain-range and bottomless gorge style of paving prevalent in the aforementioned country. I imagine that the long, flat straights would be heaven for motorcyclists...if they can avoid the occasional ostrich, zebra or elephants that occasionally cross the road.
In the safaris, the game vehicles are usually younger than the people driving them, and modifying them to allow for tourists does not consist of simply removing the doors and welding steel planks to the back of the thing. Also, in the game parks, there were well-equipped buildings which housed the anti-poaching units, as opposed to the poachers being the ones with the houses.
Of course, there has to be a down-side...or should I say down-size. As soon as we crossed into Botswana, beer was no longer sold in the half-litre bottles that we have grown fond of in East-Africa and which we considered part of the landscape, well the barscape anyway. Rather, they were sold in piddly little 340 ml ones...which incidentally cost more.
These are the hidden costs of progress which legislators fail to identify!
Botswana is famous for two main natural phenomenon (excluding gold and diamonds), the Okavango River Delta, which is the largest inland river delta in the world and the Kalahari Desert. In what seems to be par for this trip, the delta was dry, thus making it simply an “inland”. Meanwhile we were plagued by thunderstorms and cold weather in the Kalahari.
We started our expedition into the Okavango in the traditional manner; on a narrow dug-out canoe called a “makoro”. These boats are known for their amazing stability; and they are…as long as they're on dry land! As soon as they're placed in the water and then two graceless westerners and a guide are placed into them, everything changes - mostly for the wetter. Now the Okavango is not completely dry...there are still small, reed-lined rivlets that crisscross each other like roads in a badly planned city. In fact, current theory suggests that the delta was modeled after Rome.
After several hours through this labyrinthine waterpark, we arrived at a clearing where we would camp for the next three days. With the help of the guides and porters, we got out stuff off the boats and pitched camp. And that's when the porters walked away...to the next town which it seems was only about half an hour away. That's when the idea first dawned on us that we may not be as secluded as we thought.
That afternoon we went for a game walk to see the local fauna, which included baboons, warthogs, elephants (which came precariously close to our camp on another night) and lions. Now we didn't see any lions, but there were tracks. As we walked for hours into the heart of the delta, our guide stopped us and pointed out the various tracks in the sand. There he pointed out the hoofed kudu tracks and the lion tracks which followed in the same direction. To our disappointment, though not surprise, the most proliferous tracks of all in this the deepest, most savage part of the Okavango were the long, continuous parallel ones of the elusive...4x4.
As bad as this may seem, all was redeemed when we took a bumpy, low-altitude and quick turning scenic flight over the delta in a tiny Cessna. Seems there was some water down there after all.
Then we drove...and drove and drove through nothing but shrubs small trees and fences - while scarcely passing another vehicle, let alone a town, hut or even a hitch-hiker - in order to get to the Kalahari. This is where the famous Bushmen live of "The Gods Must Be Crazy" fame. Unfortunately, the reality of life in Botswana is not the romantic ideal we have of these people. Since all of Botswana has been fenced off like a huge suburb to keep the domestic cattle from wild animals, the Khoisan (or San as they're called) can no longer continue in their traditional nomadic lifestyle. As a result, they migrate towards cattle towns and alcoholism has become a big problem.
We saw the San in a makeshift human zoo-type setting. Basically, a family or group are taken from one of the remote towns and placed in a "fake" authentic village for a month to live "traditionally" so that the tourists can ooh and ahh over them. It was very uncomfortable, but it turns out that they are better paid doing this than they would at other jobs and they are free to go when they choose. They do not seem to mind, and soon as the initial awkwardness passed, they seemed quite happy to have us there and have something to do.
The rancher who ran this "show" was a skeletally thin Afrikaaner called Vampy...or Vimpy...or Voompy. I'm not sure, but I kept thinking about the Umpa-Lumpa song from Charlie and the Chocolate factory when I heard is name...which is probably why I can't remember it correctly!(Actually, I think his real name was Willem). He was quite interesting in his views of the San with whom he grew up and spoke one of the dialects fluently. When we asked why he didn't employ them on the farm, he answered that they had no marketable skills for farming, and besides, they tend to leave and not return when they feel like it, or more often than not, would go on a week-long bender after pay-day.
When we asked about some of the more obscure elements of San society, like the trance-like dancing, he attributed it to boredom, "What else is there to do in the middle of the desert with no TV or radio...I'd be dancing too"
From there, we drove in the freezing cold, as one would expect to have in the Kalahari to the South African border.
I'm out of time and this is way too long already, so I'll send it as it is and include a link to some more photos:
http://www.ofoto.com/I.jsp?c=9s4cmvvd.6vbf4qh5&x=0&y=m9nqdu
In the safaris, the game vehicles are usually younger than the people driving them, and modifying them to allow for tourists does not consist of simply removing the doors and welding steel planks to the back of the thing. Also, in the game parks, there were well-equipped buildings which housed the anti-poaching units, as opposed to the poachers being the ones with the houses.
Of course, there has to be a down-side...or should I say down-size. As soon as we crossed into Botswana, beer was no longer sold in the half-litre bottles that we have grown fond of in East-Africa and which we considered part of the landscape, well the barscape anyway. Rather, they were sold in piddly little 340 ml ones...which incidentally cost more.
These are the hidden costs of progress which legislators fail to identify!
Botswana is famous for two main natural phenomenon (excluding gold and diamonds), the Okavango River Delta, which is the largest inland river delta in the world and the Kalahari Desert. In what seems to be par for this trip, the delta was dry, thus making it simply an “inland”. Meanwhile we were plagued by thunderstorms and cold weather in the Kalahari.
We started our expedition into the Okavango in the traditional manner; on a narrow dug-out canoe called a “makoro”. These boats are known for their amazing stability; and they are…as long as they're on dry land! As soon as they're placed in the water and then two graceless westerners and a guide are placed into them, everything changes - mostly for the wetter. Now the Okavango is not completely dry...there are still small, reed-lined rivlets that crisscross each other like roads in a badly planned city. In fact, current theory suggests that the delta was modeled after Rome.
After several hours through this labyrinthine waterpark, we arrived at a clearing where we would camp for the next three days. With the help of the guides and porters, we got out stuff off the boats and pitched camp. And that's when the porters walked away...to the next town which it seems was only about half an hour away. That's when the idea first dawned on us that we may not be as secluded as we thought.
That afternoon we went for a game walk to see the local fauna, which included baboons, warthogs, elephants (which came precariously close to our camp on another night) and lions. Now we didn't see any lions, but there were tracks. As we walked for hours into the heart of the delta, our guide stopped us and pointed out the various tracks in the sand. There he pointed out the hoofed kudu tracks and the lion tracks which followed in the same direction. To our disappointment, though not surprise, the most proliferous tracks of all in this the deepest, most savage part of the Okavango were the long, continuous parallel ones of the elusive...4x4.
As bad as this may seem, all was redeemed when we took a bumpy, low-altitude and quick turning scenic flight over the delta in a tiny Cessna. Seems there was some water down there after all.
Then we drove...and drove and drove through nothing but shrubs small trees and fences - while scarcely passing another vehicle, let alone a town, hut or even a hitch-hiker - in order to get to the Kalahari. This is where the famous Bushmen live of "The Gods Must Be Crazy" fame. Unfortunately, the reality of life in Botswana is not the romantic ideal we have of these people. Since all of Botswana has been fenced off like a huge suburb to keep the domestic cattle from wild animals, the Khoisan (or San as they're called) can no longer continue in their traditional nomadic lifestyle. As a result, they migrate towards cattle towns and alcoholism has become a big problem.
We saw the San in a makeshift human zoo-type setting. Basically, a family or group are taken from one of the remote towns and placed in a "fake" authentic village for a month to live "traditionally" so that the tourists can ooh and ahh over them. It was very uncomfortable, but it turns out that they are better paid doing this than they would at other jobs and they are free to go when they choose. They do not seem to mind, and soon as the initial awkwardness passed, they seemed quite happy to have us there and have something to do.
The rancher who ran this "show" was a skeletally thin Afrikaaner called Vampy...or Vimpy...or Voompy. I'm not sure, but I kept thinking about the Umpa-Lumpa song from Charlie and the Chocolate factory when I heard is name...which is probably why I can't remember it correctly!(Actually, I think his real name was Willem). He was quite interesting in his views of the San with whom he grew up and spoke one of the dialects fluently. When we asked why he didn't employ them on the farm, he answered that they had no marketable skills for farming, and besides, they tend to leave and not return when they feel like it, or more often than not, would go on a week-long bender after pay-day.
When we asked about some of the more obscure elements of San society, like the trance-like dancing, he attributed it to boredom, "What else is there to do in the middle of the desert with no TV or radio...I'd be dancing too"
From there, we drove in the freezing cold, as one would expect to have in the Kalahari to the South African border.
I'm out of time and this is way too long already, so I'll send it as it is and include a link to some more photos:
http://www.ofoto.com/I.jsp?c=9s4cmvvd.6vbf4qh5&x=0&y=m9nqdu
Thursday, August 28, 2008
The Mighty Zambezi...revisited
OK...the Zambezi: a river which flows over a big cliff, creating what is known as Victoria Falls. Due to the nature of the gorge, it's quite difficult to see the falls except from above...either by helicopter or ultra-light.
Now, ultra-light is a far better way of doing this for the main reason that it's much, much cheaper and secondly because of the nature of the ultra-light itself. You see, the ultra-light is basically a death-trap. Some guy once decided that his hang-glider wasn't fast enough so he stuck a fan on the back of it. This worked until the extension cord came unplugged. So he got a really long extension cord and that worked until he was high in the air...and then came unplugged. After a few more tries, it was found that a motorcycle engine worked much better...even during pesky power cuts.
Of course, all this development cost money, and the way to make it back is to stick a tourist in behind the driver, so close you could remove the lice on his head (assuming he wasn't wearing a helmet...safety first, you know!) and do some free falls over the falls. The idea is that tourists – being the idiots they are - would pay to have their life pout in jeopardy.
Personally, I thought it was well worth the money.
Now, the big thing at Vic Falls is the white water, which in dry season (which it was when I originally sent this out) is meant to be some of the best in the world. Here, the tourist has two main ways to spend money risking their lives:
• rafting
• river boarding
I, of course, tried both.
Now river boarding basically involves going to some house and stealing an extremely buoyant ironing board (you can test the buoyancy in the bathtub if quiet enough not to wake the owners), putting on flippers and a life vest and jumping in the river with the sole intent of going under the rapids and (hopefully) popping up on the other side.
Rafting, on the other hand, involves getting all your chums who have never been in a raft together and try to keep this very unstable inflatable banana-like contraption from flipping over in the rapids.
Boarding is a solitary sport, apart from the guide and the other boarders with you. You follow the guide because, as he points out, if you go anywhere but where he tells you, you die. Once in position in front of the rapids you just sort of wait as there is nothing else you can do. You can try kicking with your fins, but the current being as strong as it is, it won't make a difference. Once you arrive at the rapids, you take a breath and hold on to your board in the hopes that your air will last until you pop back up again. And you always pop back up again, except maybe on your very last time boarding...in which case it will be your last time doing anything at all.
Rafting, on the other hand, is a team event. You spend the first couple of minutes practicing skills you will forget at the time of high stress when you'll really need them. The rest of the time is then spent listening to the river guide on the raft barking commands like "paddle hard", "back", "left", "right", which are rather useless since you forget what the all mean as you soil yourself when coming up to the first rapids.
And so begins the bumping of paddles, shoulders, elbows, heads etc. until the point in the rapid is reached where it's too late to do anything after buggering up the raft position so badly. So you huddle in the raft and wait and see whether it flips or not. Sometimes it does and sometimes it doesn't. Or as happened in our case, the raft was not very well inflated causing it to fold back over a rapid, some stayed in and others were flung out...I being one of them.
All in all, riverboarding seems much easier. You are already in the river, which will carry you where it wants to despite your best efforts so there is no reason to worry about how to not get thrown in. Rafting on the other hand is a tease. You're riding on top of a very bumpy river and you do everything possible to stop the big banana from flipping over, which is really what IT wants to do, given a choice. You are tricked into believing that if you work very hard, you won't flip, you’ll be fine and dry and all is good. The reality of it is that even if the thing does not flip, you get pelted by waves, may get thrown overboard and the raft is always full of water...and you’re knackered from all the paddling.
Oh yeah, I almost forgot, Vic Falls are pretty cool, too. You know...lots of falling water and stuff.
Now, ultra-light is a far better way of doing this for the main reason that it's much, much cheaper and secondly because of the nature of the ultra-light itself. You see, the ultra-light is basically a death-trap. Some guy once decided that his hang-glider wasn't fast enough so he stuck a fan on the back of it. This worked until the extension cord came unplugged. So he got a really long extension cord and that worked until he was high in the air...and then came unplugged. After a few more tries, it was found that a motorcycle engine worked much better...even during pesky power cuts.
Of course, all this development cost money, and the way to make it back is to stick a tourist in behind the driver, so close you could remove the lice on his head (assuming he wasn't wearing a helmet...safety first, you know!) and do some free falls over the falls. The idea is that tourists – being the idiots they are - would pay to have their life pout in jeopardy.
Personally, I thought it was well worth the money.
Now, the big thing at Vic Falls is the white water, which in dry season (which it was when I originally sent this out) is meant to be some of the best in the world. Here, the tourist has two main ways to spend money risking their lives:
• rafting
• river boarding
I, of course, tried both.
Now river boarding basically involves going to some house and stealing an extremely buoyant ironing board (you can test the buoyancy in the bathtub if quiet enough not to wake the owners), putting on flippers and a life vest and jumping in the river with the sole intent of going under the rapids and (hopefully) popping up on the other side.
Rafting, on the other hand, involves getting all your chums who have never been in a raft together and try to keep this very unstable inflatable banana-like contraption from flipping over in the rapids.
Boarding is a solitary sport, apart from the guide and the other boarders with you. You follow the guide because, as he points out, if you go anywhere but where he tells you, you die. Once in position in front of the rapids you just sort of wait as there is nothing else you can do. You can try kicking with your fins, but the current being as strong as it is, it won't make a difference. Once you arrive at the rapids, you take a breath and hold on to your board in the hopes that your air will last until you pop back up again. And you always pop back up again, except maybe on your very last time boarding...in which case it will be your last time doing anything at all.
Rafting, on the other hand, is a team event. You spend the first couple of minutes practicing skills you will forget at the time of high stress when you'll really need them. The rest of the time is then spent listening to the river guide on the raft barking commands like "paddle hard", "back", "left", "right", which are rather useless since you forget what the all mean as you soil yourself when coming up to the first rapids.
And so begins the bumping of paddles, shoulders, elbows, heads etc. until the point in the rapid is reached where it's too late to do anything after buggering up the raft position so badly. So you huddle in the raft and wait and see whether it flips or not. Sometimes it does and sometimes it doesn't. Or as happened in our case, the raft was not very well inflated causing it to fold back over a rapid, some stayed in and others were flung out...I being one of them.
All in all, riverboarding seems much easier. You are already in the river, which will carry you where it wants to despite your best efforts so there is no reason to worry about how to not get thrown in. Rafting on the other hand is a tease. You're riding on top of a very bumpy river and you do everything possible to stop the big banana from flipping over, which is really what IT wants to do, given a choice. You are tricked into believing that if you work very hard, you won't flip, you’ll be fine and dry and all is good. The reality of it is that even if the thing does not flip, you get pelted by waves, may get thrown overboard and the raft is always full of water...and you’re knackered from all the paddling.
Oh yeah, I almost forgot, Vic Falls are pretty cool, too. You know...lots of falling water and stuff.
And finally...photos!
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
The Mighty Zambezi...sort of
Before I start on the Zambezi thing....I must rant.
The Rant:
This rant is against all birders. Now I'm sure they are fine, upstanding people who love their children and pay their taxes, but they have no business being on an extended trip with normal people. These are the kind of people who spend their days looking at birds they've already seen before or hunting around for birds they've never seen and then cross-referencing with The Bird Bible so they can smugly chalk up another sighting and let the world know about it...whether the world wants it or not.
"Oh look everyone, it's a speckle-backed African flatulence warbler. They're very rare. We have only seen it twice before (and smelled it once), so you should kiss our feet for pointing it out to you, you ornithologically-challenged ignorant masses!"
Bid deal; they can identify birds and happily live in their own little warbly world. But actually it's not that easy. It seems that in order to see a bird, and to "bird" properly, the entire safari vehicle must come to a grinding halt for several minutes while the birds are viewed. Now there are a lot of birds in Africa...about every 2 meters. At that rate, a 3 hour safari which would ordinarily allow normal people to see lions, elephants, leopards, etc, would have travelled about 20 meters before having to turn around to go home.
And this is only when they can identify the birds! When they can't, it somehow becomes the poor driver's responsibility - above and beyond making sure the vehicle isn't attacked by rhinos or the passengers carried off by crocodiles - to give the layman term for whatever the birder is pointing at in the distance. Now, to their credit, these drivers, who speak English usually as only their third or fourth language, manage to get it spot on everytime.
But the birders will not be seen to be one-upped in the grand art and science that is looking at birds though binoculars, oh no. If the driver answers, then there is some other question to be asked, as if to say, "I was only testing you with an easy one...now here comes the real question". And the real question is usually some thing like (and this is a true to life example):
"Now is that bird a brood parasite?"
What the hell? A brood parasite? I cold see the driver's brain trying to make a connection with the word "parasite" from some ancient biology class and "brood", as in "worry about something". I could also see the rest of the group look around in part embarrassment and part pure disbelief and rage. Just as the right amount of silence passes, the birder then says "that's when they steal other bird's nests". You could hear the dozens of virtual hands smacking the birder about the head at this moment.
Mind you, in all fairness, the birders sometimes also add a bit of levity to otherwise tense situations. In the accident involving The Truck, I told y'all about last time, our resident birder arrived on the scene as we all did. Amidst the gasps and questions we were all asking regarding about how such an event came about and whether the driver was OK (I forgot to mention that between the time of the accident and police arriving on the scene, thieves tried to make away with everything on the truck - including the tires - but were stopped by the driver who was hurt in the melee) she remarked "I think it's a fish eagle".
We were all dumbfounded. Maybe the shock and trauma of it all loosened the last few feathers in her head and she was no longer able to communicate in a non-bird related language.
What's a fish eagle?
The statue on top of the fountain...it's a fish eagle.
Stupid us...we were staring at that big truck partially submerged in the water instead!
OK...that rant was longer than I thought it would be. I'll really talk about the Zambezi next time. Promise.
The Rant:
This rant is against all birders. Now I'm sure they are fine, upstanding people who love their children and pay their taxes, but they have no business being on an extended trip with normal people. These are the kind of people who spend their days looking at birds they've already seen before or hunting around for birds they've never seen and then cross-referencing with The Bird Bible so they can smugly chalk up another sighting and let the world know about it...whether the world wants it or not.
"Oh look everyone, it's a speckle-backed African flatulence warbler. They're very rare. We have only seen it twice before (and smelled it once), so you should kiss our feet for pointing it out to you, you ornithologically-challenged ignorant masses!"
Bid deal; they can identify birds and happily live in their own little warbly world. But actually it's not that easy. It seems that in order to see a bird, and to "bird" properly, the entire safari vehicle must come to a grinding halt for several minutes while the birds are viewed. Now there are a lot of birds in Africa...about every 2 meters. At that rate, a 3 hour safari which would ordinarily allow normal people to see lions, elephants, leopards, etc, would have travelled about 20 meters before having to turn around to go home.
And this is only when they can identify the birds! When they can't, it somehow becomes the poor driver's responsibility - above and beyond making sure the vehicle isn't attacked by rhinos or the passengers carried off by crocodiles - to give the layman term for whatever the birder is pointing at in the distance. Now, to their credit, these drivers, who speak English usually as only their third or fourth language, manage to get it spot on everytime.
But the birders will not be seen to be one-upped in the grand art and science that is looking at birds though binoculars, oh no. If the driver answers, then there is some other question to be asked, as if to say, "I was only testing you with an easy one...now here comes the real question". And the real question is usually some thing like (and this is a true to life example):
"Now is that bird a brood parasite?"
What the hell? A brood parasite? I cold see the driver's brain trying to make a connection with the word "parasite" from some ancient biology class and "brood", as in "worry about something". I could also see the rest of the group look around in part embarrassment and part pure disbelief and rage. Just as the right amount of silence passes, the birder then says "that's when they steal other bird's nests". You could hear the dozens of virtual hands smacking the birder about the head at this moment.
Mind you, in all fairness, the birders sometimes also add a bit of levity to otherwise tense situations. In the accident involving The Truck, I told y'all about last time, our resident birder arrived on the scene as we all did. Amidst the gasps and questions we were all asking regarding about how such an event came about and whether the driver was OK (I forgot to mention that between the time of the accident and police arriving on the scene, thieves tried to make away with everything on the truck - including the tires - but were stopped by the driver who was hurt in the melee) she remarked "I think it's a fish eagle".
We were all dumbfounded. Maybe the shock and trauma of it all loosened the last few feathers in her head and she was no longer able to communicate in a non-bird related language.
What's a fish eagle?
The statue on top of the fountain...it's a fish eagle.
Stupid us...we were staring at that big truck partially submerged in the water instead!
OK...that rant was longer than I thought it would be. I'll really talk about the Zambezi next time. Promise.
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