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.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
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.
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