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.
