Sean's Blog
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Jeffrey's Bay, South Africa 4.22.2006
As a team, we are rapidly coming to a very critical junction. For the past ten months, our overriding goal was to reach Cape Town against all odds. As we slowly made our way south, countless people told us this was impossible. We heard many things. There was no way in hell our car could make it. It was too dangerous. The roads are impassible. Thieves will steal everything we have. Recently, one wise guy told us that he wouldn't trust our car to drive him home. Very few people gave us a chance. It was almost embarrassing for a while when people asked where we were heading. I would say a country not far away. If I didn't, we would get strange looks from almost everyone.
Even I didn't give us great odds on actually making it to Cape Town. Although I knew we would do our best to persevere against anything Africa could throw at us, there were so many things that could go wrong. This has clearly been evident in the last few months as the Stingray has suffered from some major problems that would have meant the end of the journey in many countries. But we made it and now must look to the north.
I want to quickly thank everybody that has supported us along the way. We have met innumerable friends along the way who have been instrumental in making this trip a success. Each and every one of you has made a very positive impact on us as a team and has definitely been a credit to African hospitality. Extra special thanks go to two wonderful friends and crucial supporters that never lost faith: Happi in Cameroon and the Major in Nigeria. If we pushed on when everything seemed lost, it was because of people like you.
We have left Cape Town behind and are now heading up the coast towards Mozambique. After living out of a car for almost a year and being constantly on the move, I think we are all a bit burnt out. I have almost forgotten what it is like to have a place of my own, to wear clothes that haven't been utterly destroyed and to sleep in a bed that offers something more than a thin plastic mat in a tent which, due to a myriad of gaping holes, is affectionately referred to as the "Franken-Tent". Yet my desire to see the trip to its conclusion in Ethiopia still remains strong. Africa is an amazing continent and there is still so much more I want to see and do.
Unplanned expenses have put us into a small monetary crisis. We have enough money to get out of South Africa and into Mozambique; but the African AIDS Awareness Campaign will meet its end there if nothing significant changes. Tuuli is hard at work in Jo'burg looking to the private sector for support; but assistance is far from guaranteed. She has her work cut out for her.
Despite an uncertain future for the campaign, I am very happy with what we have already accomplished. Ten months, seventeen countries and nearly 20,000 miles later, we have made it further than any of us could have imagined. I have seen fantastic projects and met many dedicated people that have given me hope about the fight against AIDS. Despite appalling statistics from a pandemic that is still growing at an astonishing speed, significant progress is being made in many places across the continent at a local level.
The next few weeks will be critical to the future of our campaign. What transpires next, on a personal level, is just as uncertain. I have been disconnected for so long that all previous plans have been called into serious question. Despite much reflection and recent homesickness, I am increasingly becoming weary of throwing myself into a life that I have avoided for so long. I have what might or might not be a very rational fear of becoming trapped. Yet at this point I am very far removed from that life. And I have recently been wondering what I might possibly be missing. I don't know what is next for me. I am not even sure what I want. But as I have learned on countless occasions along the way, only time will tell.
As a team, we are rapidly coming to a very critical junction. For the past ten months, our overriding goal was to reach Cape Town against all odds. As we slowly made our way south, countless people told us this was impossible. We heard many things. There was no way in hell our car could make it. It was too dangerous. The roads are impassible. Thieves will steal everything we have. Recently, one wise guy told us that he wouldn't trust our car to drive him home. Very few people gave us a chance. It was almost embarrassing for a while when people asked where we were heading. I would say a country not far away. If I didn't, we would get strange looks from almost everyone.
Even I didn't give us great odds on actually making it to Cape Town. Although I knew we would do our best to persevere against anything Africa could throw at us, there were so many things that could go wrong. This has clearly been evident in the last few months as the Stingray has suffered from some major problems that would have meant the end of the journey in many countries. But we made it and now must look to the north.
I want to quickly thank everybody that has supported us along the way. We have met innumerable friends along the way who have been instrumental in making this trip a success. Each and every one of you has made a very positive impact on us as a team and has definitely been a credit to African hospitality. Extra special thanks go to two wonderful friends and crucial supporters that never lost faith: Happi in Cameroon and the Major in Nigeria. If we pushed on when everything seemed lost, it was because of people like you.
We have left Cape Town behind and are now heading up the coast towards Mozambique. After living out of a car for almost a year and being constantly on the move, I think we are all a bit burnt out. I have almost forgotten what it is like to have a place of my own, to wear clothes that haven't been utterly destroyed and to sleep in a bed that offers something more than a thin plastic mat in a tent which, due to a myriad of gaping holes, is affectionately referred to as the "Franken-Tent". Yet my desire to see the trip to its conclusion in Ethiopia still remains strong. Africa is an amazing continent and there is still so much more I want to see and do.
Unplanned expenses have put us into a small monetary crisis. We have enough money to get out of South Africa and into Mozambique; but the African AIDS Awareness Campaign will meet its end there if nothing significant changes. Tuuli is hard at work in Jo'burg looking to the private sector for support; but assistance is far from guaranteed. She has her work cut out for her.
Despite an uncertain future for the campaign, I am very happy with what we have already accomplished. Ten months, seventeen countries and nearly 20,000 miles later, we have made it further than any of us could have imagined. I have seen fantastic projects and met many dedicated people that have given me hope about the fight against AIDS. Despite appalling statistics from a pandemic that is still growing at an astonishing speed, significant progress is being made in many places across the continent at a local level.
The next few weeks will be critical to the future of our campaign. What transpires next, on a personal level, is just as uncertain. I have been disconnected for so long that all previous plans have been called into serious question. Despite much reflection and recent homesickness, I am increasingly becoming weary of throwing myself into a life that I have avoided for so long. I have what might or might not be a very rational fear of becoming trapped. Yet at this point I am very far removed from that life. And I have recently been wondering what I might possibly be missing. I don't know what is next for me. I am not even sure what I want. But as I have learned on countless occasions along the way, only time will tell.
Cape Town, South Africa 4.14.2006
Many years ago, before I first visited Africa, I saw a website advertising shark diving. While I had heard of many different "shark diving experiences", varying from swimming alongside giant whale sharks to observing nurse sharks at close range, this website was very different. It offered what I thought was an insane idea: cage diving with the Great White, the most dangerous shark in the world.
Safaris have never really appealed to me. Viewing "big game" just doesn't seem that exciting. Most game farms are nothing but glorified zoos. Rangers often know exactly where the animals are going to be and the animals behave in very predictable ways. Once you've spent a couple hours watching elephants at a watering hole, visiting additional watering holes with additional elephants gets tiresome. This might sound a bit sacrilegious; but, everything you can see on a reserve you can find in a zoo.
The normally elusive Great White shark is different. There are only a few places in the world where you can regularly see them. South Africa, with one of the highest populations of Great Whites, is exceptional. This past week at Plettenberg Bay, 14 different Great Whites were spotted just off the coast. There are numerous organizations dedicated to monitoring the waters for these sharks and warning surfers in the water when they are sighted. Observing a Great White in the water seemed likely to offer everything that normal safaris don't: the chance to see an extraordinary beast at close quarters in its natural environment. When I got to Cape Town, I looked up the company I had read about many years before on the internet and signed up for a morning in the cage.
I was picked up at 5:30 in the morning from my hostel. It was still dark out as I climbed into a small bus with thirteen other aspirant shark divers. Most were men in their mid to late twenties. Many were going solo, unable to convince friends and family of the merits of such an expedition. After a couple hours drive down the coast, I boarded a double-decker boat and we quickly headed out to sea.
Our boat dropped anchor a few kilometers off the coast in an area known for its resident seals. A large tuna head tied to a rope was thrown off the back of the boat and the water was chummed with fish blood. It wasn't long before we got our first hit. The captain, in mid explanation of the upcoming dive, was interrupted when a three meter Great White surfaced and violently snatched at the bait. It circled the boat a few times while the crew lowered the diving cage into the water; then it silently dropped into the depths.
It was overcast and the water looked especially cold and uninviting. The captain asked for volunteers for the first group. The cage was moderately sized and could fit up to four people. I wanted to go; so I quickly suited up with three other shark enthusiasts. We put on full body wetsuits with hoods as well as booties. Instead of scuba gear, the noise of which can scare sharks away, we used snorkels. The captain tied weight belts to us as we adjusted our masks. As I climbed down the ladder into the small opening at the top of the cage, I quickly scanned the water. I didn't see any sharks but I knew they were waiting just out of sight. My visibility was somewhat limited because of the mask and I felt that one missed step would send me tumbling over the cage into the open water.
I dropped into the cage without any trouble and with adrenaline pumping, submerged. The first thing I noticed was the bottom of the cage. There were huge openings in the cage where we were meant to stand. At one point, these openings were covered by netting to keep your legs from slipping through. The netting under me was far from robust. There were huge holes in it and almost immediately, my left foot slipped through into the oblivion below.
I readjusted my stance and we waited. The water was dark and murky, but visibility was adequate. Huge schools of small fish hovered around the bait and swam in and out of the cages. With the heavy duty wetsuit on, the water wasn't as cold as I expected. We waited patiently as an eerie calm permeated the silent sea. Suddenly, a sharp noise broke the stillness.
"Watch the bait! Watch the bait!" screamed the captain. I could see nothing. Then, like a ghost out of the fog the grinning face of a hungry Great White emerged ferociously. As it made a pass for the bait situated a few meters from the cage, its massive body took shape. Its size was insanely impressive in the water. This wasn't even a large shark; but its girth was remarkable. I was thrilled to be in the water with such a creature. It turned toward us and gave us a passing glance, dropping beneath us and disappearing into the depths beneath.
A few minutes later, a second shark came to investigate the bait. This one stuck around for awhile, disappearing for a few minutes at a time and reappearing at various disconcerting locations all around the cage. At one point, as I was intently watching the bait, I glanced behind me only to be startled by a huge shadow passing just feet from the cage behind us. After about 25 minutes in the water, with our shark fix properly satisfied, the four of us got out, took off the wetsuits, and dried off on the deck of the boat.
The viewing from on the boat was just as good as in the water. Over the course of the next three hours, seven different Great Whites paid us a visit, the biggest at just over four meters. It was definitely an impressive display of what the ocean hid in its depths. As we pulled anchor and headed back to shore, I knew it would definitely give me something to think about next time I paddled out into sea in search of good surf.
Many years ago, before I first visited Africa, I saw a website advertising shark diving. While I had heard of many different "shark diving experiences", varying from swimming alongside giant whale sharks to observing nurse sharks at close range, this website was very different. It offered what I thought was an insane idea: cage diving with the Great White, the most dangerous shark in the world.
Safaris have never really appealed to me. Viewing "big game" just doesn't seem that exciting. Most game farms are nothing but glorified zoos. Rangers often know exactly where the animals are going to be and the animals behave in very predictable ways. Once you've spent a couple hours watching elephants at a watering hole, visiting additional watering holes with additional elephants gets tiresome. This might sound a bit sacrilegious; but, everything you can see on a reserve you can find in a zoo.
The normally elusive Great White shark is different. There are only a few places in the world where you can regularly see them. South Africa, with one of the highest populations of Great Whites, is exceptional. This past week at Plettenberg Bay, 14 different Great Whites were spotted just off the coast. There are numerous organizations dedicated to monitoring the waters for these sharks and warning surfers in the water when they are sighted. Observing a Great White in the water seemed likely to offer everything that normal safaris don't: the chance to see an extraordinary beast at close quarters in its natural environment. When I got to Cape Town, I looked up the company I had read about many years before on the internet and signed up for a morning in the cage.
I was picked up at 5:30 in the morning from my hostel. It was still dark out as I climbed into a small bus with thirteen other aspirant shark divers. Most were men in their mid to late twenties. Many were going solo, unable to convince friends and family of the merits of such an expedition. After a couple hours drive down the coast, I boarded a double-decker boat and we quickly headed out to sea.
Our boat dropped anchor a few kilometers off the coast in an area known for its resident seals. A large tuna head tied to a rope was thrown off the back of the boat and the water was chummed with fish blood. It wasn't long before we got our first hit. The captain, in mid explanation of the upcoming dive, was interrupted when a three meter Great White surfaced and violently snatched at the bait. It circled the boat a few times while the crew lowered the diving cage into the water; then it silently dropped into the depths.
It was overcast and the water looked especially cold and uninviting. The captain asked for volunteers for the first group. The cage was moderately sized and could fit up to four people. I wanted to go; so I quickly suited up with three other shark enthusiasts. We put on full body wetsuits with hoods as well as booties. Instead of scuba gear, the noise of which can scare sharks away, we used snorkels. The captain tied weight belts to us as we adjusted our masks. As I climbed down the ladder into the small opening at the top of the cage, I quickly scanned the water. I didn't see any sharks but I knew they were waiting just out of sight. My visibility was somewhat limited because of the mask and I felt that one missed step would send me tumbling over the cage into the open water.
I dropped into the cage without any trouble and with adrenaline pumping, submerged. The first thing I noticed was the bottom of the cage. There were huge openings in the cage where we were meant to stand. At one point, these openings were covered by netting to keep your legs from slipping through. The netting under me was far from robust. There were huge holes in it and almost immediately, my left foot slipped through into the oblivion below.
I readjusted my stance and we waited. The water was dark and murky, but visibility was adequate. Huge schools of small fish hovered around the bait and swam in and out of the cages. With the heavy duty wetsuit on, the water wasn't as cold as I expected. We waited patiently as an eerie calm permeated the silent sea. Suddenly, a sharp noise broke the stillness.
"Watch the bait! Watch the bait!" screamed the captain. I could see nothing. Then, like a ghost out of the fog the grinning face of a hungry Great White emerged ferociously. As it made a pass for the bait situated a few meters from the cage, its massive body took shape. Its size was insanely impressive in the water. This wasn't even a large shark; but its girth was remarkable. I was thrilled to be in the water with such a creature. It turned toward us and gave us a passing glance, dropping beneath us and disappearing into the depths beneath.
A few minutes later, a second shark came to investigate the bait. This one stuck around for awhile, disappearing for a few minutes at a time and reappearing at various disconcerting locations all around the cage. At one point, as I was intently watching the bait, I glanced behind me only to be startled by a huge shadow passing just feet from the cage behind us. After about 25 minutes in the water, with our shark fix properly satisfied, the four of us got out, took off the wetsuits, and dried off on the deck of the boat.
The viewing from on the boat was just as good as in the water. Over the course of the next three hours, seven different Great Whites paid us a visit, the biggest at just over four meters. It was definitely an impressive display of what the ocean hid in its depths. As we pulled anchor and headed back to shore, I knew it would definitely give me something to think about next time I paddled out into sea in search of good surf.
Cape Town, South Africa 4.11.2006
Cape Town is everything Jo'burg isn't. Situated near the Cape of Good Hope where the Atlantic and Indian oceans meet, it is the southern most city in Africa. It is magnificently crammed between the ocean and an impressive range of mountains. Small towns, fishing communities and charming vacation homes lay scattered along the coast. Prosperous adrenaline seekers can skydive, kite surf, dune buggy, bungy jump and abseil to their hearts delight. The landscape is tremendous in Cape Town. It is also the classic final "destination" of many African overland trips.
Yet just outside Cape Town, hidden from view on the barren plains, lies the vast Cape Flat townships. During apartheid, the white South African government wanted to ensure that cheap labor was easily accessible. To make this possible, they created black townships close enough to every city to provide bargain man power but far enough away to prevent unnecessary intermingling. The government then moved huge portions of the population to these townships.
While the quality of life varies greatly in the townships, by and large most areas suffer from a lack of electricity, have no running water, are incredibly overcrowded, and have very high unemployment and crime rates. Housing varies greatly, from lifeless tracts of tiny government constructed homes to frail shacks built from aluminum siding. Once out of the cities, some of these townships stretch for miles. On many maps, they are not even indicated. Some have absolutely huge populations, such as Soweto, with over four million people.
I have not yet been able to completely reconcile myself with the fact that, twelve years after the collapse of apartheid, the townships are essentially providing the same function as before. It is not the poverty itself in the townships that shocks me. People throughout Africa live in conditions strikingly similar to this. Their level of destitution is in no way unique or noteworthy. Rather, it is the absolute disconnect between two alien ways of life, created according to skin color, that I find disturbing. I want to say this is slowly changing, that South African's attitudes towards race relations are improving, but the economic reality is impossible to ignore.
The residents of the townships are mostly landless wage slaves. In most other African countries, the majority of the rural populations still farm. While material wealth is often elusive, these Africans at least own land and, hypothetically, they have some measure of control over their food security. In South Africa, every last hectare of land has been bought up and fenced off by commercial farmers, ranchers, investors and wealthy foreigners. Proportionally, very little arable land remains in the hands of the black population. It would be difficult to find space for a single garden bed in scores of the townships. With the possibility of sustenance farming nonexistent, the masses are stuck in blue collar jobs with few opportunities for upward mobility.
In many townships people are struggling to create vibrant and economically healthy communities. Some are succeeding. Conditions are changing. Yet, it seems like things are not moving fast enough. The inequalities still remain huge. Admittedly, this assessment is only based on a few experiences in the townships. As a white outsider, it has been difficult to accurately gauge the true conditions of life within a township. Numbers and statistics mean very little. Voyeuristic "township tours" can be very incomplete and misleading. Without a respected "guide" from within the community, townships can be dangerous to visit alone.
I would have liked the opportunity to have spent more time in the townships. I still have many unanswered questions, observations that need to be clarified, and possibly premature opinions to put to the test. Thankfully, there is still time as we head up the coast towards Mozambique. Nevertheless, I am alarmed to think that if I don't have an opportunity to spend more time in the townships during this trip, I could always come back in five or ten years and find black South Africans living in identical conditions.
Cape Town is everything Jo'burg isn't. Situated near the Cape of Good Hope where the Atlantic and Indian oceans meet, it is the southern most city in Africa. It is magnificently crammed between the ocean and an impressive range of mountains. Small towns, fishing communities and charming vacation homes lay scattered along the coast. Prosperous adrenaline seekers can skydive, kite surf, dune buggy, bungy jump and abseil to their hearts delight. The landscape is tremendous in Cape Town. It is also the classic final "destination" of many African overland trips.
Yet just outside Cape Town, hidden from view on the barren plains, lies the vast Cape Flat townships. During apartheid, the white South African government wanted to ensure that cheap labor was easily accessible. To make this possible, they created black townships close enough to every city to provide bargain man power but far enough away to prevent unnecessary intermingling. The government then moved huge portions of the population to these townships.
While the quality of life varies greatly in the townships, by and large most areas suffer from a lack of electricity, have no running water, are incredibly overcrowded, and have very high unemployment and crime rates. Housing varies greatly, from lifeless tracts of tiny government constructed homes to frail shacks built from aluminum siding. Once out of the cities, some of these townships stretch for miles. On many maps, they are not even indicated. Some have absolutely huge populations, such as Soweto, with over four million people.
I have not yet been able to completely reconcile myself with the fact that, twelve years after the collapse of apartheid, the townships are essentially providing the same function as before. It is not the poverty itself in the townships that shocks me. People throughout Africa live in conditions strikingly similar to this. Their level of destitution is in no way unique or noteworthy. Rather, it is the absolute disconnect between two alien ways of life, created according to skin color, that I find disturbing. I want to say this is slowly changing, that South African's attitudes towards race relations are improving, but the economic reality is impossible to ignore.
The residents of the townships are mostly landless wage slaves. In most other African countries, the majority of the rural populations still farm. While material wealth is often elusive, these Africans at least own land and, hypothetically, they have some measure of control over their food security. In South Africa, every last hectare of land has been bought up and fenced off by commercial farmers, ranchers, investors and wealthy foreigners. Proportionally, very little arable land remains in the hands of the black population. It would be difficult to find space for a single garden bed in scores of the townships. With the possibility of sustenance farming nonexistent, the masses are stuck in blue collar jobs with few opportunities for upward mobility.
In many townships people are struggling to create vibrant and economically healthy communities. Some are succeeding. Conditions are changing. Yet, it seems like things are not moving fast enough. The inequalities still remain huge. Admittedly, this assessment is only based on a few experiences in the townships. As a white outsider, it has been difficult to accurately gauge the true conditions of life within a township. Numbers and statistics mean very little. Voyeuristic "township tours" can be very incomplete and misleading. Without a respected "guide" from within the community, townships can be dangerous to visit alone.
I would have liked the opportunity to have spent more time in the townships. I still have many unanswered questions, observations that need to be clarified, and possibly premature opinions to put to the test. Thankfully, there is still time as we head up the coast towards Mozambique. Nevertheless, I am alarmed to think that if I don't have an opportunity to spend more time in the townships during this trip, I could always come back in five or ten years and find black South Africans living in identical conditions.
Friday, April 21, 2006
Johannesburg, South Africa 4.07.2006
The moment we arrived in Jo'burg, I was immediately struck by a strange and unexpected wave of nostalgia. The vast, sprawling city emits an unmistakable air that immediately brought to mind Los Angeles. With its convoluted and congested system of freeways, the thick smog resting over downtown, the trendy shopping quarters only blocks from rundown slums, after ten long months on the road it felt like I was finally home.
Over 10 million people live in the bustling metropolitan sprawl that includes Pretoria and the township of Soweto. Jo'Burg is its heart, serving as a vital hub for virtually all major business operating in Southern Africa. It is also often called the "Car Jacking Capital of the World" and the crime rates are astounding. Tuuli had arrived in Jo"burg a couple of days before us, knew a bit about the lay of the land, and was excited to show us around the city where she will eventually be working. During our brief but all inclusive tour, we received the full "Jo'burg experience".
Tuuli put Mike and me onto a local minibus heading for the city center. After about 20 minutes of driving, I realized we were close when I saw a sign for Hillbrow. This made me more than a bit apprehensive. However, Tuuli reassured us that she had been through here the day before and that we were not in any danger. I knew almost nothing about Jo'burg except that the suburb of Hillbrow is notoriously dangerous. From the view out of my window, its nasty reputation seemed quite reasonable. Architecturally, many of the buildings seemed transplanted straight out of a Dickens novel with "grimy industrial slum" as its overriding theme. Malicious looking men sat with vacant eyes on curbsides, glaring viciously at passing cars while rolling cheap cigarettes by hand. In short, it was not a place I wanted to see more of.
We were dropped not far away, in a fairly run down area bustling with commerce. The buildings had the classy city mix of shoddy shops on the bottom and tiny gloomy apartments reaching for the heavens above. On the sidewalks outside these shops ran an endless line of stalls selling everything from shiny watches to colorful produce. I didn't know it at the time, but we were in the vicinity of Park Station, an area notorious for its crime. Tuuli showed us around this area as we gradually moved uptown towards classier areas.
Business was booming. The streets were crowded with somber shoppers. The predominantly black areas around Park Station gradually merged into the cosmopolitan "rainbow nation" that the South Africa government is trying so hard to publicly advocate. We passed countless shops selling every kind of commercial product existing. I couldn't afford any of it. I wasn't sure if I wanted to. Yet even this disgust with flaunted material wealth was almost immediately called into question when I caught myself jealously watching a bratty young child with a huge ice cream Sunday. I desperately wanted one too. Clearly, this vast discrepancy of wealth from block to block explained something about the appalling crime rates.
On the way back to the taxi park in Park Station we stopped for a quick drink. As we sat down, a man immediately approached us. "You are not safe here," he whispered into Mike's ear. "You need to leave." Not willing to wait around and find out what he meant, we finished our drinks promptly, got up and left. We were only a couple of blocks away. The streets were crowded with people. It was still early. We walked at a brisk pace, weaving in and out of the pedestrians.
Suddenly a man in a black jacket stepped in front of me, grabbed Tuuli from behind and threw her violently to the ground. As this was happening, a second man took a hold of me. He wasn't very big. I reached back, seized him, and started to push him off of me. A third man stepped out of the crowd and put a knife to my side. "Give me your money or I will shoot you in the face," he said simply. The game was up. Checkmate. My battleship had unmistakably been sunk.
I let go and the smaller lout slipped behind me and put another knife against my throat. "No problem," I told them. "You can have everything." As I scanned the crowd, I saw at least five more thugs standing at ready. Mike was against the wall, emptying out his pockets, with a knife inches from his face. Tuuli was still on the ground, being relieved of her bag.
It was a professional job. There was no sense of urgency or nervous tension. I felt oddly safe throughout the whole experience, knowing that we were all past the point of ill-advised heroics and other correspondingly imprudent reactions. They took their time, checking me for a money belt and thoroughly patting me down. All my pockets were emptied and every last thing was appropriated. There was a large crowd of bystanders watching, but they knew well enough not to interfere. And then, as abruptly as they appeared, the thieves melted back into the crowd and were gone.
Without saying a word, the three of us started walking once again towards the taxi stand. Mike had some good news. A 20 rand bill, or $3, had been overlooked in the bottom of one of his pockets. We weren't completely stranded. This would be just enough money to get us back to Tuuli's boss's house in Sandton. Although we lost relatively little money and didn't have anything essential like our passports on us, we no longer have our vital credit cards. Getting access to our dwindling money will be a bit of a problem. Yet all things considered, we were very lucky. We took a risk walking around a particularly dangerous area and it cost us. But nobody got hurt and we will be all the more cautious in the future.
The moment we arrived in Jo'burg, I was immediately struck by a strange and unexpected wave of nostalgia. The vast, sprawling city emits an unmistakable air that immediately brought to mind Los Angeles. With its convoluted and congested system of freeways, the thick smog resting over downtown, the trendy shopping quarters only blocks from rundown slums, after ten long months on the road it felt like I was finally home.
Over 10 million people live in the bustling metropolitan sprawl that includes Pretoria and the township of Soweto. Jo'Burg is its heart, serving as a vital hub for virtually all major business operating in Southern Africa. It is also often called the "Car Jacking Capital of the World" and the crime rates are astounding. Tuuli had arrived in Jo"burg a couple of days before us, knew a bit about the lay of the land, and was excited to show us around the city where she will eventually be working. During our brief but all inclusive tour, we received the full "Jo'burg experience".
Tuuli put Mike and me onto a local minibus heading for the city center. After about 20 minutes of driving, I realized we were close when I saw a sign for Hillbrow. This made me more than a bit apprehensive. However, Tuuli reassured us that she had been through here the day before and that we were not in any danger. I knew almost nothing about Jo'burg except that the suburb of Hillbrow is notoriously dangerous. From the view out of my window, its nasty reputation seemed quite reasonable. Architecturally, many of the buildings seemed transplanted straight out of a Dickens novel with "grimy industrial slum" as its overriding theme. Malicious looking men sat with vacant eyes on curbsides, glaring viciously at passing cars while rolling cheap cigarettes by hand. In short, it was not a place I wanted to see more of.
We were dropped not far away, in a fairly run down area bustling with commerce. The buildings had the classy city mix of shoddy shops on the bottom and tiny gloomy apartments reaching for the heavens above. On the sidewalks outside these shops ran an endless line of stalls selling everything from shiny watches to colorful produce. I didn't know it at the time, but we were in the vicinity of Park Station, an area notorious for its crime. Tuuli showed us around this area as we gradually moved uptown towards classier areas.
Business was booming. The streets were crowded with somber shoppers. The predominantly black areas around Park Station gradually merged into the cosmopolitan "rainbow nation" that the South Africa government is trying so hard to publicly advocate. We passed countless shops selling every kind of commercial product existing. I couldn't afford any of it. I wasn't sure if I wanted to. Yet even this disgust with flaunted material wealth was almost immediately called into question when I caught myself jealously watching a bratty young child with a huge ice cream Sunday. I desperately wanted one too. Clearly, this vast discrepancy of wealth from block to block explained something about the appalling crime rates.
On the way back to the taxi park in Park Station we stopped for a quick drink. As we sat down, a man immediately approached us. "You are not safe here," he whispered into Mike's ear. "You need to leave." Not willing to wait around and find out what he meant, we finished our drinks promptly, got up and left. We were only a couple of blocks away. The streets were crowded with people. It was still early. We walked at a brisk pace, weaving in and out of the pedestrians.
Suddenly a man in a black jacket stepped in front of me, grabbed Tuuli from behind and threw her violently to the ground. As this was happening, a second man took a hold of me. He wasn't very big. I reached back, seized him, and started to push him off of me. A third man stepped out of the crowd and put a knife to my side. "Give me your money or I will shoot you in the face," he said simply. The game was up. Checkmate. My battleship had unmistakably been sunk.
I let go and the smaller lout slipped behind me and put another knife against my throat. "No problem," I told them. "You can have everything." As I scanned the crowd, I saw at least five more thugs standing at ready. Mike was against the wall, emptying out his pockets, with a knife inches from his face. Tuuli was still on the ground, being relieved of her bag.
It was a professional job. There was no sense of urgency or nervous tension. I felt oddly safe throughout the whole experience, knowing that we were all past the point of ill-advised heroics and other correspondingly imprudent reactions. They took their time, checking me for a money belt and thoroughly patting me down. All my pockets were emptied and every last thing was appropriated. There was a large crowd of bystanders watching, but they knew well enough not to interfere. And then, as abruptly as they appeared, the thieves melted back into the crowd and were gone.
Without saying a word, the three of us started walking once again towards the taxi stand. Mike had some good news. A 20 rand bill, or $3, had been overlooked in the bottom of one of his pockets. We weren't completely stranded. This would be just enough money to get us back to Tuuli's boss's house in Sandton. Although we lost relatively little money and didn't have anything essential like our passports on us, we no longer have our vital credit cards. Getting access to our dwindling money will be a bit of a problem. Yet all things considered, we were very lucky. We took a risk walking around a particularly dangerous area and it cost us. But nobody got hurt and we will be all the more cautious in the future.
Gaborone, Botswana 3.22.2006
Botswana is often acclaimed as "Africa's success story." Since independence in 1966, the country has been led by moderate leaders who, uniquely in Africa, have consistently allowed multi-party elections. With the discovery of diamonds in the late 60's that currently account for 30% of the world's supply, the previously weak economy was significantly bolstered. Good governance and a remarkable lack of corruption became normal routine in Botswana. Between 1970 and 1990, Botswana had the fastest growing economy in the world at an astonishing 13% rate and it now enjoys one of the highest GDPs per capita in Africa.
Gabs, the capital of Botswana, tends to gets unpleasant reviews. It's been called "a sprawling village", "drab", and "lacking in definition". I wasn't expecting much when we pulled into the city. We planned on liaising with Kevin, a Peace Corps volunteer working in the AIDS sector, researching a few organizations, and getting out of town as swiftly as possible. While navigating the city was initially challenging, as we once again had to rely on incomplete and outdated maps, Gabs looked okay. While there were no impressively expensive public monuments, strikingly tall buildings, or chic central hang outs, the sprawling village looked decently well off. There didn't seem to be slums on the outskirts and nearly everybody appeared to be living moderately well. There was definitely money there, but many of the excesses of other capitals were not as evident.
The contrasts with Namibia were strong. In many ways, the countries are similar. They both have small populations; culturally noteworthy groups such as the Herero and San (bushmen) make up an important subsection of both. Large portions of land in Namibia and Botswana are consumed by dramatic deserts, such as the Kalahari and the Namib. They both have significant mineral resources. However, where Namibia struggled under apartheid for many years and has a very recent history of hostility between blacks and whites, Botswana has grown vigorously as a nation since independence in 1966. Under black leadership, Botswana took significant steps to avoid the same racial problems that Namibia, South Africa, and Zimbabwe are even now experiencing.
Just coming from Namibia, it was fascinating to see an African country that had been run efficiently for 40 years. In West Africa, major cities are often "blessed" with impressive monuments and vast "revolutionary" squares constructed at an incredibly high cost to the average person; Gabs in contrast seems content to under whelm. While this hasn't contributed to making the city especially dynamic or vibrant, it has given it a very healthy feel where people of all classes, colors and sexes can mingle relatively smoothly. This alone makes Gabs an attractive place for me and I look forward to enjoying what are likely to be a few uneventful but enjoyable days in the capital.
Botswana is often acclaimed as "Africa's success story." Since independence in 1966, the country has been led by moderate leaders who, uniquely in Africa, have consistently allowed multi-party elections. With the discovery of diamonds in the late 60's that currently account for 30% of the world's supply, the previously weak economy was significantly bolstered. Good governance and a remarkable lack of corruption became normal routine in Botswana. Between 1970 and 1990, Botswana had the fastest growing economy in the world at an astonishing 13% rate and it now enjoys one of the highest GDPs per capita in Africa.
Gabs, the capital of Botswana, tends to gets unpleasant reviews. It's been called "a sprawling village", "drab", and "lacking in definition". I wasn't expecting much when we pulled into the city. We planned on liaising with Kevin, a Peace Corps volunteer working in the AIDS sector, researching a few organizations, and getting out of town as swiftly as possible. While navigating the city was initially challenging, as we once again had to rely on incomplete and outdated maps, Gabs looked okay. While there were no impressively expensive public monuments, strikingly tall buildings, or chic central hang outs, the sprawling village looked decently well off. There didn't seem to be slums on the outskirts and nearly everybody appeared to be living moderately well. There was definitely money there, but many of the excesses of other capitals were not as evident.
The contrasts with Namibia were strong. In many ways, the countries are similar. They both have small populations; culturally noteworthy groups such as the Herero and San (bushmen) make up an important subsection of both. Large portions of land in Namibia and Botswana are consumed by dramatic deserts, such as the Kalahari and the Namib. They both have significant mineral resources. However, where Namibia struggled under apartheid for many years and has a very recent history of hostility between blacks and whites, Botswana has grown vigorously as a nation since independence in 1966. Under black leadership, Botswana took significant steps to avoid the same racial problems that Namibia, South Africa, and Zimbabwe are even now experiencing.
Just coming from Namibia, it was fascinating to see an African country that had been run efficiently for 40 years. In West Africa, major cities are often "blessed" with impressive monuments and vast "revolutionary" squares constructed at an incredibly high cost to the average person; Gabs in contrast seems content to under whelm. While this hasn't contributed to making the city especially dynamic or vibrant, it has given it a very healthy feel where people of all classes, colors and sexes can mingle relatively smoothly. This alone makes Gabs an attractive place for me and I look forward to enjoying what are likely to be a few uneventful but enjoyable days in the capital.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Back to Windhoek 3.11.2006
We have been rescued. Help arrived in the form of a mad German and his SWAPO freedom fighting Namibian friend. Transporting a portable welding machine all the way out to the scene of our breakdown, everything has been patched up. We are back in Windhoek, our team has been reunited, and the Stingray is once again ready to challenge anything that Africa throws at us.
We have been rescued. Help arrived in the form of a mad German and his SWAPO freedom fighting Namibian friend. Transporting a portable welding machine all the way out to the scene of our breakdown, everything has been patched up. We are back in Windhoek, our team has been reunited, and the Stingray is once again ready to challenge anything that Africa throws at us.
Stuck in the Desert #3 3.10.2006
It's been two days since the first breakdown. Nate and I are huddled underneath a makeshift shade structure, hiding from the unrelenting sun. It is insufferably hot. The few trucks that have passed have refilled our dwindling water supply. Currently, we only have enough for about one more day. We got a call yesterday from Mike and Tuuli. They were fortunate and got a quick lift to Windhoek with Captain Morgan, the pirate guide, but took a different road and didn't pass us. We sent our broken shock, along with a chunk of the frame, with a passing car. With any luck, they will get it and figure out a way to get us out.
Earlier today we met a passing Namibian named Frank. After giving us some water and driving off, he turned around about 500 meters down the road, came back and asked us if we wanted a cold beer. I wondered why he was tempting us with the impossible, mocking our pitiable condition and rubbing salt into our fresh wounds. What kind of person would make light of a situation as serious as ours? Not Frank. Reaching behind him, he pulled out two icy cans of Windhoek Lager beer and tossed them to us. Incredibly grateful, Nate did a spontaneous beer dance in the middle of the road as Frank left us in a cloud a dust. Shaking and contorting his body in ways frighteningly similar to a chicken saved at the last moment from inevitable slaughter, Nate strutted back and forth in front of the car. He finished his beer, I emptied mine, and we crawled back under the Stingray to escape the lethal heat while we continue to wait.
It's been two days since the first breakdown. Nate and I are huddled underneath a makeshift shade structure, hiding from the unrelenting sun. It is insufferably hot. The few trucks that have passed have refilled our dwindling water supply. Currently, we only have enough for about one more day. We got a call yesterday from Mike and Tuuli. They were fortunate and got a quick lift to Windhoek with Captain Morgan, the pirate guide, but took a different road and didn't pass us. We sent our broken shock, along with a chunk of the frame, with a passing car. With any luck, they will get it and figure out a way to get us out.
Earlier today we met a passing Namibian named Frank. After giving us some water and driving off, he turned around about 500 meters down the road, came back and asked us if we wanted a cold beer. I wondered why he was tempting us with the impossible, mocking our pitiable condition and rubbing salt into our fresh wounds. What kind of person would make light of a situation as serious as ours? Not Frank. Reaching behind him, he pulled out two icy cans of Windhoek Lager beer and tossed them to us. Incredibly grateful, Nate did a spontaneous beer dance in the middle of the road as Frank left us in a cloud a dust. Shaking and contorting his body in ways frighteningly similar to a chicken saved at the last moment from inevitable slaughter, Nate strutted back and forth in front of the car. He finished his beer, I emptied mine, and we crawled back under the Stingray to escape the lethal heat while we continue to wait.
Stuck in the Desert #2 3.9.2006
All is not lost. Senselessly, our present predicament wiped from my mind a truly wonderful gift, graciously offered by the desert the previous night. After our initial breakdown, we cautiously brought the Stingray back to Solitaire for the night. On the way, we passed a dying jackrabbit on the road, clearly a recent victim of some mad trucker futilely chasing a fading sun. Andrew, a Green Peace activist following close behind in a rental with Tuuli and Mike, pulled over to put the poor jackrabbit out of its misery. Upon completion of the painful deed, Tuuli turned to Andrew and asked if he had a bag. He did and Tuuli, to his surprise, wrapped up the jackrabbit and tossed it into the car.
Is it normal to be extremely excited about the prospect of devouring road kill? Is it acceptable to swerve at wildlife scurrying across the roads? What if Tuuli decides she wants to keep the pelt of last night's dinner and wear it as a scarf? I no longer have the capacity to answer these questions from a Western mind set. This doesn't bother me in the slightest. All I know is that I am exceptionally hungry, I haven't eaten decent meat in ages, and there is a fleshy jackrabbit sitting in front of me, waiting to be cooked. We have been abandoned in the desert by Tuuli and Mike. Nate is salivating with hunger. There is no time to spare. The jackrabbit must be eaten.
All is not lost. Senselessly, our present predicament wiped from my mind a truly wonderful gift, graciously offered by the desert the previous night. After our initial breakdown, we cautiously brought the Stingray back to Solitaire for the night. On the way, we passed a dying jackrabbit on the road, clearly a recent victim of some mad trucker futilely chasing a fading sun. Andrew, a Green Peace activist following close behind in a rental with Tuuli and Mike, pulled over to put the poor jackrabbit out of its misery. Upon completion of the painful deed, Tuuli turned to Andrew and asked if he had a bag. He did and Tuuli, to his surprise, wrapped up the jackrabbit and tossed it into the car.
Is it normal to be extremely excited about the prospect of devouring road kill? Is it acceptable to swerve at wildlife scurrying across the roads? What if Tuuli decides she wants to keep the pelt of last night's dinner and wear it as a scarf? I no longer have the capacity to answer these questions from a Western mind set. This doesn't bother me in the slightest. All I know is that I am exceptionally hungry, I haven't eaten decent meat in ages, and there is a fleshy jackrabbit sitting in front of me, waiting to be cooked. We have been abandoned in the desert by Tuuli and Mike. Nate is salivating with hunger. There is no time to spare. The jackrabbit must be eaten.
Stuck in the Desert #1 3.9.2006
We left Mike and Tuuli in a tiny backwater town called Solitaire, on the fringe of the Namibian desert. The plan was for them to hitch back to the capital while Nate and I attempted to limp back to Windhoek in our badly damaged car. The previous day, we snapped our rear left shock in half, tearing out a huge chunk of the frame in the process. Things did not look good. The closest place with the necessary facilities to begin fixing the car was over 250 kilometers away.
Tuuli and I hitched a ride 30 kilometers to the closest town, found a welder and mended the shock. However, we were warned by the welder that the shock wasn't strong and we wouldn't make it far before it broke again. With no other alternatives, we decided to unload as much weight as possible from the Stingray (including Mike and Tuuli) and attempt a journey over mountainous terrain that we were told we couldn't make.
After 70 uneventful kilometers, the shock broke again. The last remnants of the rusted and battered frame that secures the shock to the car also decided to completely rip apart. Stranded on a lonely road in a beautifully desolate province inhabited by a few white farmers scattered great distances apart, Nate and I wait for help. We can't leave the car, or it will be picked clean by light-fingered scavengers. I am not sure what solution will present itself, but for the meantime there’s nothing to do but sit and hope for the best.
We left Mike and Tuuli in a tiny backwater town called Solitaire, on the fringe of the Namibian desert. The plan was for them to hitch back to the capital while Nate and I attempted to limp back to Windhoek in our badly damaged car. The previous day, we snapped our rear left shock in half, tearing out a huge chunk of the frame in the process. Things did not look good. The closest place with the necessary facilities to begin fixing the car was over 250 kilometers away.
Tuuli and I hitched a ride 30 kilometers to the closest town, found a welder and mended the shock. However, we were warned by the welder that the shock wasn't strong and we wouldn't make it far before it broke again. With no other alternatives, we decided to unload as much weight as possible from the Stingray (including Mike and Tuuli) and attempt a journey over mountainous terrain that we were told we couldn't make.
After 70 uneventful kilometers, the shock broke again. The last remnants of the rusted and battered frame that secures the shock to the car also decided to completely rip apart. Stranded on a lonely road in a beautifully desolate province inhabited by a few white farmers scattered great distances apart, Nate and I wait for help. We can't leave the car, or it will be picked clean by light-fingered scavengers. I am not sure what solution will present itself, but for the meantime there’s nothing to do but sit and hope for the best.
Namibia/First Impressions 2.27.2006
Crossing the border into Namibia was one of the most shocking and disorienting experiences I have ever had. After living for five years in Western Africa and traveling through strife prone Central Africa, crossing into the Southern Africa was like stepping into a time warp and falling into Omaha, Nebraska. The strip malls, fancy cars, unabashed commercialism, policemen in cars with radar guns, Kentucky Fried Chicken, it all threw me for a loop. I was preparing myself for this in South Africa, but I was shocked to encounter it so soon in Namibia.
I hadn't read up on my Namibian history before coming and didn't realize that it had been occupied by South Africa and didn't get its independence until 1990. Apartheid had been well entrenched and its wounds are still fresh. In most major towns, whites and newly made blacks live in the cities while just outside of town lurk the townships where the majority of blacks live in less than ideal conditions. They provide the cheap labor necessary to keep the cities running, but are practically bussed in and out everyday.
Nate and I accidently wandered into a township in Tsumeb, looking for an open joint to grab a beer. People were very shocked that we were there. Whites just didn't go into the townships alone. We didn't know this then. Everybody was accommodating and there was no real fear for our safety, but it was obvious that this was very unusual. Over the next week, we talked to white Namibians who said that the townships were dangerous, took us to "white" bars and clubs, discouraged us from frequenting mixed places, and made offhand comments that anywhere else in the world would be perceived as racist.
While this didn't represent the majority of white Namibians I met, there were a surprisingly large number of people that viewed everything, from work to social activities, by color. Along with the whites and blacks, there are also the "coloreds" who normally keep to themselves, consider themselves better than the blacks, but are generally despised by everyone else because they are thought to be lazy and uneducated. There are entire sections of the capital, Windhoek, which are segregated almost exclusively by race. It will take some time to get used to this, as well as figure out ways to deal with it.
Crossing the border into Namibia was one of the most shocking and disorienting experiences I have ever had. After living for five years in Western Africa and traveling through strife prone Central Africa, crossing into the Southern Africa was like stepping into a time warp and falling into Omaha, Nebraska. The strip malls, fancy cars, unabashed commercialism, policemen in cars with radar guns, Kentucky Fried Chicken, it all threw me for a loop. I was preparing myself for this in South Africa, but I was shocked to encounter it so soon in Namibia.
I hadn't read up on my Namibian history before coming and didn't realize that it had been occupied by South Africa and didn't get its independence until 1990. Apartheid had been well entrenched and its wounds are still fresh. In most major towns, whites and newly made blacks live in the cities while just outside of town lurk the townships where the majority of blacks live in less than ideal conditions. They provide the cheap labor necessary to keep the cities running, but are practically bussed in and out everyday.
Nate and I accidently wandered into a township in Tsumeb, looking for an open joint to grab a beer. People were very shocked that we were there. Whites just didn't go into the townships alone. We didn't know this then. Everybody was accommodating and there was no real fear for our safety, but it was obvious that this was very unusual. Over the next week, we talked to white Namibians who said that the townships were dangerous, took us to "white" bars and clubs, discouraged us from frequenting mixed places, and made offhand comments that anywhere else in the world would be perceived as racist.
While this didn't represent the majority of white Namibians I met, there were a surprisingly large number of people that viewed everything, from work to social activities, by color. Along with the whites and blacks, there are also the "coloreds" who normally keep to themselves, consider themselves better than the blacks, but are generally despised by everyone else because they are thought to be lazy and uneducated. There are entire sections of the capital, Windhoek, which are segregated almost exclusively by race. It will take some time to get used to this, as well as figure out ways to deal with it.
Under Mike's Car, Southern Angola 2.20.2006
Last night, Nate and I slept under a truck. We had been traveling with Mike, a young Angolan who had founded his own small village in the south of the country. He took us to a club in a nearby town were I witnessed one of the most impressive displays of martial arts street fighting I have ever seen, complete with roundhouse kicks and punishing head butts straight out of a Jackie Chan movie. Not long after, we hit the road and headed in the direction of Mike's village.
However, less than a kilometer from the club, we hit some sand, Mike stalled the engine, and because of battery problems couldn't restart it. For the next hour, Nate and I pushed his truck back and forth down a small hill while he failed to get the car restarted. Finally, at around 4am, we threw in the towel and told Mike that we needed to sleep. He ran about, trying to work out some kind of sleeping arrangements, but nothing was possible at this hour. Tuuli had already claimed the mattress in the back of the truck so Nate and I climbed underneath the truck and slept in the sand.
This wasn't a problem until it started raining. I was on the outside and couldn't fully escape the rain. My head and feet were sticking out just enough to make me shiver with cold. Tuuli had already moved into the only dry place available, the cabin of the truck. This left Nate and I with no way to escape the freezing rain; with no other alternative, I curled up alongside the warm body of my completely platonic friend Nate. He was also shaking with cold.
It wasn't long before the sand underneath us turned wet and I found myself laying in a puddle of water. This wouldn't work. I got up, crawled out from underneath the car, and staggered around aimlessly, trying to keep warm while the rain ensured that I would stay wet. As the sun rose, I woke Nate up and convinced him that sleeping in a puddle wasn't a good idea. Mike was MIA and Tuuli was dead asleep, so Nate and I started walking back to Mike's village.
We had no idea how far it was. After a couple of hours it stopped raining and got hot. We continued walking until we had put at least 30 kilometers behind us. I knew we were still far. Both of us were exhausted, hungry and very dehydrated. There were very few cars on the road. We walked and waited. Finally, we flagged down a passing truck, jumped in the back, and caught a ride for the last 15 kilometers or so to Mike's village and our car. At last, we could get some water, role a couple of mats underneath a tree and get some sleep.
Last night, Nate and I slept under a truck. We had been traveling with Mike, a young Angolan who had founded his own small village in the south of the country. He took us to a club in a nearby town were I witnessed one of the most impressive displays of martial arts street fighting I have ever seen, complete with roundhouse kicks and punishing head butts straight out of a Jackie Chan movie. Not long after, we hit the road and headed in the direction of Mike's village.
However, less than a kilometer from the club, we hit some sand, Mike stalled the engine, and because of battery problems couldn't restart it. For the next hour, Nate and I pushed his truck back and forth down a small hill while he failed to get the car restarted. Finally, at around 4am, we threw in the towel and told Mike that we needed to sleep. He ran about, trying to work out some kind of sleeping arrangements, but nothing was possible at this hour. Tuuli had already claimed the mattress in the back of the truck so Nate and I climbed underneath the truck and slept in the sand.
This wasn't a problem until it started raining. I was on the outside and couldn't fully escape the rain. My head and feet were sticking out just enough to make me shiver with cold. Tuuli had already moved into the only dry place available, the cabin of the truck. This left Nate and I with no way to escape the freezing rain; with no other alternative, I curled up alongside the warm body of my completely platonic friend Nate. He was also shaking with cold.
It wasn't long before the sand underneath us turned wet and I found myself laying in a puddle of water. This wouldn't work. I got up, crawled out from underneath the car, and staggered around aimlessly, trying to keep warm while the rain ensured that I would stay wet. As the sun rose, I woke Nate up and convinced him that sleeping in a puddle wasn't a good idea. Mike was MIA and Tuuli was dead asleep, so Nate and I started walking back to Mike's village.
We had no idea how far it was. After a couple of hours it stopped raining and got hot. We continued walking until we had put at least 30 kilometers behind us. I knew we were still far. Both of us were exhausted, hungry and very dehydrated. There were very few cars on the road. We walked and waited. Finally, we flagged down a passing truck, jumped in the back, and caught a ride for the last 15 kilometers or so to Mike's village and our car. At last, we could get some water, role a couple of mats underneath a tree and get some sleep.
Angola 2.18.2006
At first glance, Angola seems to be an utterly forsaken country. With more active landmines per capita than any other country in the world and an infrastructure completely destroyed by over 20 years of brutal civil war, it is not an inviting place. In Angola, the cold war caught fire. The leftist Angolan government's socialist policies were not well received in the West. Angola was repeatedly invaded and occupied by Mobutu's Congolese army in the north and apartheid South Africa in the south. Atrocities were widespread. America provided support to both these armies, while funding and equipping Angolan war criminal Jonas Savimbi and his UNITA rebels who were also fighting inside the country. Cuba came to the aid of the besieged Angolan government and sent 19,000 troops for support. The war finally ended with the death of Savimbi in 2002.
In Angola, you can get your legs blown off just by stepping off the road for a quick piss. For many, child amputees embody Angola's image abroad. Burnt out tanks rest quietly in abandoned fields. Bridges lay in ruins. Huge sections of the country are essentially off limits, marked with flags ominously stating "Peligroso - Mines". Outside the capital, entire cities such as Huambo still lay in ruins three years after the war's end. Some buildings are nothing more than rubble, demolished by intense urban combat. Anything left standing gives an unmistakable look at how arbitrarily the war was fought, with not a single building left untouched from errant gunfire, tank rounds and mortar fire. Shops in many towns offer practically no commodities for sale.
Yet people here are slowly starting to recover. Life goes on. In the rural areas, village life remains unchanged. Despite the years of suffering, people here have been very welcoming. Whether it be a fire to cook over, a spot to pitch a tent or even local palm wine to taste, our basic needs have all been met. The countryside is often stunning, with green rolling hills in the north, rivers cutting through gorges in the central regions, and large scenic expanses of semiarid desert in the south.
Our biggest frustration with Angola is its shear size. With nearly 2,000 kilometers between its northern border with DRC and Namibia to the south, and connected by some of the worst roads in the world, crossing Angola in any vehicle is a daunting task. Even getting a basic visa is difficult. We had to pay twice over, got stranded at the border, had to reenter the DRC with a police escort to sort out paperwork, and finally ended up with a 15 day transit visa. Toss a two-wheel drive vehicle into the equation and you have a hell of a mess on your hands.
We knew we had to travel nonstop if we had any chance of making it out of Angola before our visa expired. Waking at 6am every morning, we drove late into the night on a daily basis and camped in villages. While driving after dark is very risky, we had no choice. The Stingray took a substantial beating along the way. We flooded the engine, smashed the underside on rocks, got stuck in deep pits of mud while avoiding others by treacherously tight rope walking around minefields and almost rolled the car down a hill. But we are now past the worst and have only a short distance to go to the border, where the promise of good roads in Namibia awaits.
At first glance, Angola seems to be an utterly forsaken country. With more active landmines per capita than any other country in the world and an infrastructure completely destroyed by over 20 years of brutal civil war, it is not an inviting place. In Angola, the cold war caught fire. The leftist Angolan government's socialist policies were not well received in the West. Angola was repeatedly invaded and occupied by Mobutu's Congolese army in the north and apartheid South Africa in the south. Atrocities were widespread. America provided support to both these armies, while funding and equipping Angolan war criminal Jonas Savimbi and his UNITA rebels who were also fighting inside the country. Cuba came to the aid of the besieged Angolan government and sent 19,000 troops for support. The war finally ended with the death of Savimbi in 2002.
In Angola, you can get your legs blown off just by stepping off the road for a quick piss. For many, child amputees embody Angola's image abroad. Burnt out tanks rest quietly in abandoned fields. Bridges lay in ruins. Huge sections of the country are essentially off limits, marked with flags ominously stating "Peligroso - Mines". Outside the capital, entire cities such as Huambo still lay in ruins three years after the war's end. Some buildings are nothing more than rubble, demolished by intense urban combat. Anything left standing gives an unmistakable look at how arbitrarily the war was fought, with not a single building left untouched from errant gunfire, tank rounds and mortar fire. Shops in many towns offer practically no commodities for sale.
Yet people here are slowly starting to recover. Life goes on. In the rural areas, village life remains unchanged. Despite the years of suffering, people here have been very welcoming. Whether it be a fire to cook over, a spot to pitch a tent or even local palm wine to taste, our basic needs have all been met. The countryside is often stunning, with green rolling hills in the north, rivers cutting through gorges in the central regions, and large scenic expanses of semiarid desert in the south.
Our biggest frustration with Angola is its shear size. With nearly 2,000 kilometers between its northern border with DRC and Namibia to the south, and connected by some of the worst roads in the world, crossing Angola in any vehicle is a daunting task. Even getting a basic visa is difficult. We had to pay twice over, got stranded at the border, had to reenter the DRC with a police escort to sort out paperwork, and finally ended up with a 15 day transit visa. Toss a two-wheel drive vehicle into the equation and you have a hell of a mess on your hands.
We knew we had to travel nonstop if we had any chance of making it out of Angola before our visa expired. Waking at 6am every morning, we drove late into the night on a daily basis and camped in villages. While driving after dark is very risky, we had no choice. The Stingray took a substantial beating along the way. We flooded the engine, smashed the underside on rocks, got stuck in deep pits of mud while avoiding others by treacherously tight rope walking around minefields and almost rolled the car down a hill. But we are now past the worst and have only a short distance to go to the border, where the promise of good roads in Namibia awaits.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Pygmy-Ville, Gabon (1.6.2006)
We were hundreds of miles off the tar road, deep in the rainforests of Gabon, searching for the Baka, or Pygmy peoples. We had left our car with the mayor of Minvoul, a neglected provincial town in danger of being swallowed by the surrounding jungle. After finding a Fang guide to take us deep into the forest the following day, we sought out a local 'spirit walker' for counsel. In a dimly lit room on the edge of town, he stressed the importance of fortitude and respect for the natural order of the jungle. Our impending journey was not one that should be taken lightly. He whispered that many strange things happen in the forests. He equipped us, in his own fashion, for the days to come.
After securing provisions early the next day, we struck off into the bush on foot with our guide and two Pygmy trackers. It wasn't long before the cultivated land surrounding Minvoul transformed into dense forest. The damp heat was stifling. I wore sweat like a winter coat. The jungle gradually consumed the trail. Suddenly, we hit water and were brought to a halt.
I had not expected that 'rain forests' were underwater. When we started our expedition, I did not think that we would be navigating a nearly impenetrable maze of waterways in our search for the shifting Pygmy villages, slowly moving deeper into the forests. This unanticipated ecosystem had a swampy feel straight out of the Degobah system. Surprisingly, it lacked the abundance of small bugs and pests that one might expect. Large trees, emerging from the shallow waters below, provided an inviting home for a host of vines. Much of the remaining space was consumed by large drooping fronds from stout river palms. Very little sunlight light reached the forest floor beneath.
The pygmies fetched two dugout canoes and we piled in. After navigating into a small river, we cut back into the swamps and hit dry ground. Our guide informed us that our staging base, a small Pygmy village, was only a short distance away. As we hiked up to higher ground, a few scattered banana trees materialized and abruptly, we stepped into a clearing. The houses, built with mud bricks on a bamboo and palm frond skeleton, were grouped together to form a few family compounds. While the men were slightly taller than I had anticipated, none of the women seemed to be taller than four feet. Many were returning from the forest, with wicker backpacks overloaded with wood.
We spent much of the afternoon learning about the Pygmy way of life. While they are best known for their honey collecting and elephant hunting, many of the pygmies are also engaged in trapping, fishing and small scale agriculture. One of our Pygmy guides offered to take us out to check his traps. He led us back into the forest, turning quickly off the narrow track into the village. As we ambled through the forest, he pointed out trap after trap that were almost invisible even with his assistance. Most consisted of a small tree bowed to the ground, held delicately in place with a metal lariat as its trigger. Anything that stuck its head, arm or foot inside would be snatched, thrown into the air, and left dangling helplessly. The smaller ones were used for porcupines, bush rats and duikers, while the larger ones were set for gazelles and panthers. I was genuinely terrified during a great deal of the time spent checking the traps that I would suddenly find myself launched into the air only to find myself painfully hanging from atop a small tree.
After returning unscathed back to the village, we heard more about the changing nature of Pygmy life as the outside world steadily encroaches on their traditional way of life. Many Pygmies have embraced certain aspects of Western culture fervently. While only a few generations before they wore bark, now they wear jeans and t-shirts. While still hunting elephants with spears, now they fire them out of specially constructed guns. Mass produced gadgets and toys are fancied. Yet, because of their traditional lifestyle, earning money for these things is difficult. There seem to be no easy solutions and many feel neglected and ignored by their own government.
Evening came quick and the chief informed us that we were lucky to be in their village that evening; drumming and dancing were to be performed to appease the forest god. Men manned a few big drums and beat them fervently while the women wailed. The local 'witch doctor' put on a many layered chain link metal butt mask and shook his way back and forth in front of the fire in time to the music. Tuuli and I contributed a long forgotten glow stick and the party really got going. Soon, the 'witch doctor' informed us that the forest god needed alcohol. (This very same 'witch doctor' fell into the fire the next evening while professing his undying love to Tuuli.) While satisfying a forest god's craving for booze seemed a strange request, we offered a bottle of local manioc liquor. It was ceremonially offered and left by the fire. Tuuli was especially pleased to see one of the woman run over and grab it a few minutes later; she demolished the bottle with the rest of her friends. The party soon petered out and we returned to our tents to sleep.
The following day, we hired three dugouts to take us on a long trip to the earliest Pygmy settlement in the region. A tiny village much deeper in the rainforest, we were told it would take us much of the day to get there. There are only six Pygmy settlements in the region, yet they are scattered widely and difficult to reach. When Nate asked how often they visited this village, one of the pygmies responded "I've been there a couple of times. We only go when somebody important dies."
Two to a canoe, each of our guides sat in front. Nate and I debated a bit why this was the case; the answer quickly became apparent when after only a short while we cut away from the main river into the narrow waterways. There were no 'swamp trails'. Our guides slowly cut a path through the swamp, putting their machetes to work as the paddles took a back seat. It was nearly impossible to believe that the pygmies had any clue where they were going until I noticed my guide mark a tree with a strange sign. Increasingly, I began to notice other trees with similar markings. Hours went by. We continued paddling. I kept expecting Yoda to pop out from behind a tree. And then, no land in site, our guides told us that the boat portion of the trip was finished.
I got out in knee deep water. We trudged along, sinking deep into repulsive mud. My sandals broke. I went barefoot, gashing my feet at every opportunity against submerged sticks, logs and razor-sharp fronds. We continued in this fashion for nearly a kilometer. Land appeared and a short while later, covered in mud, we stumbled into the village. The Pygmy chief met us and gave us a brief history of the village. It had been there for around 40 years and was the first settlement. Most of the Pygmies in the area had come south from Cameroon. They still build their houses strictly from palm fronds. The village is used as a hunting camp for elephants. Last year they had one tourist, a Japanese man, visit them. After a short stay, we had to get back on the river because of the great distance between villages. We said goodbye and headed back to our camp; the following day we returned to Minvoul and hit the road, with Libreville our intended destination.
We were hundreds of miles off the tar road, deep in the rainforests of Gabon, searching for the Baka, or Pygmy peoples. We had left our car with the mayor of Minvoul, a neglected provincial town in danger of being swallowed by the surrounding jungle. After finding a Fang guide to take us deep into the forest the following day, we sought out a local 'spirit walker' for counsel. In a dimly lit room on the edge of town, he stressed the importance of fortitude and respect for the natural order of the jungle. Our impending journey was not one that should be taken lightly. He whispered that many strange things happen in the forests. He equipped us, in his own fashion, for the days to come.
After securing provisions early the next day, we struck off into the bush on foot with our guide and two Pygmy trackers. It wasn't long before the cultivated land surrounding Minvoul transformed into dense forest. The damp heat was stifling. I wore sweat like a winter coat. The jungle gradually consumed the trail. Suddenly, we hit water and were brought to a halt.
I had not expected that 'rain forests' were underwater. When we started our expedition, I did not think that we would be navigating a nearly impenetrable maze of waterways in our search for the shifting Pygmy villages, slowly moving deeper into the forests. This unanticipated ecosystem had a swampy feel straight out of the Degobah system. Surprisingly, it lacked the abundance of small bugs and pests that one might expect. Large trees, emerging from the shallow waters below, provided an inviting home for a host of vines. Much of the remaining space was consumed by large drooping fronds from stout river palms. Very little sunlight light reached the forest floor beneath.
The pygmies fetched two dugout canoes and we piled in. After navigating into a small river, we cut back into the swamps and hit dry ground. Our guide informed us that our staging base, a small Pygmy village, was only a short distance away. As we hiked up to higher ground, a few scattered banana trees materialized and abruptly, we stepped into a clearing. The houses, built with mud bricks on a bamboo and palm frond skeleton, were grouped together to form a few family compounds. While the men were slightly taller than I had anticipated, none of the women seemed to be taller than four feet. Many were returning from the forest, with wicker backpacks overloaded with wood.
We spent much of the afternoon learning about the Pygmy way of life. While they are best known for their honey collecting and elephant hunting, many of the pygmies are also engaged in trapping, fishing and small scale agriculture. One of our Pygmy guides offered to take us out to check his traps. He led us back into the forest, turning quickly off the narrow track into the village. As we ambled through the forest, he pointed out trap after trap that were almost invisible even with his assistance. Most consisted of a small tree bowed to the ground, held delicately in place with a metal lariat as its trigger. Anything that stuck its head, arm or foot inside would be snatched, thrown into the air, and left dangling helplessly. The smaller ones were used for porcupines, bush rats and duikers, while the larger ones were set for gazelles and panthers. I was genuinely terrified during a great deal of the time spent checking the traps that I would suddenly find myself launched into the air only to find myself painfully hanging from atop a small tree.
After returning unscathed back to the village, we heard more about the changing nature of Pygmy life as the outside world steadily encroaches on their traditional way of life. Many Pygmies have embraced certain aspects of Western culture fervently. While only a few generations before they wore bark, now they wear jeans and t-shirts. While still hunting elephants with spears, now they fire them out of specially constructed guns. Mass produced gadgets and toys are fancied. Yet, because of their traditional lifestyle, earning money for these things is difficult. There seem to be no easy solutions and many feel neglected and ignored by their own government.
Evening came quick and the chief informed us that we were lucky to be in their village that evening; drumming and dancing were to be performed to appease the forest god. Men manned a few big drums and beat them fervently while the women wailed. The local 'witch doctor' put on a many layered chain link metal butt mask and shook his way back and forth in front of the fire in time to the music. Tuuli and I contributed a long forgotten glow stick and the party really got going. Soon, the 'witch doctor' informed us that the forest god needed alcohol. (This very same 'witch doctor' fell into the fire the next evening while professing his undying love to Tuuli.) While satisfying a forest god's craving for booze seemed a strange request, we offered a bottle of local manioc liquor. It was ceremonially offered and left by the fire. Tuuli was especially pleased to see one of the woman run over and grab it a few minutes later; she demolished the bottle with the rest of her friends. The party soon petered out and we returned to our tents to sleep.
The following day, we hired three dugouts to take us on a long trip to the earliest Pygmy settlement in the region. A tiny village much deeper in the rainforest, we were told it would take us much of the day to get there. There are only six Pygmy settlements in the region, yet they are scattered widely and difficult to reach. When Nate asked how often they visited this village, one of the pygmies responded "I've been there a couple of times. We only go when somebody important dies."
Two to a canoe, each of our guides sat in front. Nate and I debated a bit why this was the case; the answer quickly became apparent when after only a short while we cut away from the main river into the narrow waterways. There were no 'swamp trails'. Our guides slowly cut a path through the swamp, putting their machetes to work as the paddles took a back seat. It was nearly impossible to believe that the pygmies had any clue where they were going until I noticed my guide mark a tree with a strange sign. Increasingly, I began to notice other trees with similar markings. Hours went by. We continued paddling. I kept expecting Yoda to pop out from behind a tree. And then, no land in site, our guides told us that the boat portion of the trip was finished.
I got out in knee deep water. We trudged along, sinking deep into repulsive mud. My sandals broke. I went barefoot, gashing my feet at every opportunity against submerged sticks, logs and razor-sharp fronds. We continued in this fashion for nearly a kilometer. Land appeared and a short while later, covered in mud, we stumbled into the village. The Pygmy chief met us and gave us a brief history of the village. It had been there for around 40 years and was the first settlement. Most of the Pygmies in the area had come south from Cameroon. They still build their houses strictly from palm fronds. The village is used as a hunting camp for elephants. Last year they had one tourist, a Japanese man, visit them. After a short stay, we had to get back on the river because of the great distance between villages. We said goodbye and headed back to our camp; the following day we returned to Minvoul and hit the road, with Libreville our intended destination.
Foumban, Cameroon (12.17.2005)
I find myself no longer able to delineate the boundaries between the sentient and inanimate; I can no longer think of the Stingray simply as the perfect vehicle, created to conquer all obstacles. During the past five months behind the wheel, I have seen the Stingray take petty revenges for imprudent decisions. I have also seen him impulsively fix long running problems without any outside help. Although often needy and regularly temperamental, I have found in him a reliable friend.
It took some time before I could fully trust the Stingray. There was one night early in our friendship when he would not allow his headlights to be turned off. Shutting off the engine and removing the ignition key made no difference. In the end, I was forced to disconnect the battery at each stop. This outburst lasted only one irritating evening. I marked it off as an early attempt to set boundaries.
Sometimes, after a long punishing day on the road, the Stingray will refuse me access to his horn. Other times it is the turn signals. Sometimes closing the left door with force will dramatically change the volume of the radio. For a few months we fought over the power windows (excessive and potentially dangerous in a car with such an unpredictable attitude). This often occurred during such opportune times as trips to the market, forcing me to baby sit him, and sudden downpours. This has not won the Stingray many friends. Yet these outbursts are infrequent and the Stingray frequently normalizes relations on his own by suddenly fixing the problem.
On the flip side, the Stingray has performed admirably well in some of the worst areas we have faced. Climbing dunes in Dogon, wading deadly rivers near Konni, plowing through large tracts of Saharan desert, straddling deep culverts in mountainous Rhumsiki, and navigating muddy rice field dividers in Karifiguela were relatively straightforward for the Stingray. Where many failed, the Stingray stood strong.
However, before our latest journey I observed something I had never seen before. I saw undeniable fear in the Stingray. We had decided on a notoriously unpleasant track west through Banyo and Tibati in an attempt to steer clear of the Chadian rebels creating havoc on the main road. We awoke and packed early in the morning, before the sun could peak its head over the misty mountains to the east.
When it came time to awake the Stingray, it was business as usual. There were no early indications of any irregularities. The engine purred softly as dawn sky began to fill with color. The road ahead seemed surmountable. Then an unexpected cough. A sudden sharp fluctuation in the idle, warning lights flashing, and the engine almost died before returning to normal. I looked at Nate and Tuuli. They shrugged. Then it happened again, with 'hicups' materializing every ten seconds. I popped the hood, we poked around a bit, checked the sparkplugs, but couldn't make anything of it. Before searching for a mechanic, I felt we should give the Stingray a bit of time to stretch its morning legs.
With Nate behind the wheel, the Stingray's early morning flutters quickly disappeared. We considered that quite possibly the Stingray was a bit worried about the road ahead and wanted to notify us. However, with no other options and the 'problem' suddenly gone, we headed off the paved road onto a rocky dirt road with almost 400 miles between us and our intended destination.
The road, while rough and even a bit precarious at times, was manageable. I was overjoyed to see that the potholes, twice the size of the Stingray and deadly during the long rainy season, could be avoided with appropriate technical driving. Infrequent 'traffic' on the road consisted primarily of an occasional commercial shipping truck.
Covering more than half the distance by nightfall, we stopped in a small Fulfulde village and camped in the chief's compound. The following day, after a long stretch of ruined road, we finally hit tarmac. I was sure the Stingray would be grateful. Surely, after adeptly guiding him across potentially devastating terrain, he would make the final stretch easy. But this was not to be; it was payback time. After the punishing we gave the Stingray, he vindictively waited until we were within striking distance of Douala.
It happened slowly at first. As we ascended the final mountainous roads, less than a hundred kilometers away from our intended destination, we found the 'muscle' distinctly lacking in our usually trustworthy car.
It sputtered, coughed and finally wouldn't accept any speed faster than that of a donkey cart in deep sand. We rolled into a small roadside town, confident that we couldn't even make it to the top of the hill just after town. With Nate and Tuuli debating about leaving the car there and trying to catch a ride to the capital for help, I popped the hood and started tinkering with the air intake valve. After a few minor adjustments, the Stingray seemed to have caught its breath and regained some of its strength.
I hadn't yet lost faith in the Stingray's ability to carry us to even the most remote places. We jumped back in, and without fail arrived in Douala before nightfall. The next day, we brought the Stingray to a local mechanic for a check up and, after fixing one broken shock and a busted bobine, we were ready to continue further south.
I find myself no longer able to delineate the boundaries between the sentient and inanimate; I can no longer think of the Stingray simply as the perfect vehicle, created to conquer all obstacles. During the past five months behind the wheel, I have seen the Stingray take petty revenges for imprudent decisions. I have also seen him impulsively fix long running problems without any outside help. Although often needy and regularly temperamental, I have found in him a reliable friend.
It took some time before I could fully trust the Stingray. There was one night early in our friendship when he would not allow his headlights to be turned off. Shutting off the engine and removing the ignition key made no difference. In the end, I was forced to disconnect the battery at each stop. This outburst lasted only one irritating evening. I marked it off as an early attempt to set boundaries.
Sometimes, after a long punishing day on the road, the Stingray will refuse me access to his horn. Other times it is the turn signals. Sometimes closing the left door with force will dramatically change the volume of the radio. For a few months we fought over the power windows (excessive and potentially dangerous in a car with such an unpredictable attitude). This often occurred during such opportune times as trips to the market, forcing me to baby sit him, and sudden downpours. This has not won the Stingray many friends. Yet these outbursts are infrequent and the Stingray frequently normalizes relations on his own by suddenly fixing the problem.
On the flip side, the Stingray has performed admirably well in some of the worst areas we have faced. Climbing dunes in Dogon, wading deadly rivers near Konni, plowing through large tracts of Saharan desert, straddling deep culverts in mountainous Rhumsiki, and navigating muddy rice field dividers in Karifiguela were relatively straightforward for the Stingray. Where many failed, the Stingray stood strong.
However, before our latest journey I observed something I had never seen before. I saw undeniable fear in the Stingray. We had decided on a notoriously unpleasant track west through Banyo and Tibati in an attempt to steer clear of the Chadian rebels creating havoc on the main road. We awoke and packed early in the morning, before the sun could peak its head over the misty mountains to the east.
When it came time to awake the Stingray, it was business as usual. There were no early indications of any irregularities. The engine purred softly as dawn sky began to fill with color. The road ahead seemed surmountable. Then an unexpected cough. A sudden sharp fluctuation in the idle, warning lights flashing, and the engine almost died before returning to normal. I looked at Nate and Tuuli. They shrugged. Then it happened again, with 'hicups' materializing every ten seconds. I popped the hood, we poked around a bit, checked the sparkplugs, but couldn't make anything of it. Before searching for a mechanic, I felt we should give the Stingray a bit of time to stretch its morning legs.
With Nate behind the wheel, the Stingray's early morning flutters quickly disappeared. We considered that quite possibly the Stingray was a bit worried about the road ahead and wanted to notify us. However, with no other options and the 'problem' suddenly gone, we headed off the paved road onto a rocky dirt road with almost 400 miles between us and our intended destination.
The road, while rough and even a bit precarious at times, was manageable. I was overjoyed to see that the potholes, twice the size of the Stingray and deadly during the long rainy season, could be avoided with appropriate technical driving. Infrequent 'traffic' on the road consisted primarily of an occasional commercial shipping truck.
Covering more than half the distance by nightfall, we stopped in a small Fulfulde village and camped in the chief's compound. The following day, after a long stretch of ruined road, we finally hit tarmac. I was sure the Stingray would be grateful. Surely, after adeptly guiding him across potentially devastating terrain, he would make the final stretch easy. But this was not to be; it was payback time. After the punishing we gave the Stingray, he vindictively waited until we were within striking distance of Douala.
It happened slowly at first. As we ascended the final mountainous roads, less than a hundred kilometers away from our intended destination, we found the 'muscle' distinctly lacking in our usually trustworthy car.
It sputtered, coughed and finally wouldn't accept any speed faster than that of a donkey cart in deep sand. We rolled into a small roadside town, confident that we couldn't even make it to the top of the hill just after town. With Nate and Tuuli debating about leaving the car there and trying to catch a ride to the capital for help, I popped the hood and started tinkering with the air intake valve. After a few minor adjustments, the Stingray seemed to have caught its breath and regained some of its strength.
I hadn't yet lost faith in the Stingray's ability to carry us to even the most remote places. We jumped back in, and without fail arrived in Douala before nightfall. The next day, we brought the Stingray to a local mechanic for a check up and, after fixing one broken shock and a busted bobine, we were ready to continue further south.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
N'Gaoundere, Cameroon
I met my guardian angel yesterday at a crowded roadside cafeteria in N'Gaoundere. He was unobtrusively sitting across from me, blending seamlessly in with the crowd. I was eating flavorless liver with soggy plantains. In a southern drawl more at home in Alabama or Louisiana, he said his name was Dale.
While I am certain that I have kept him busy in the past, there had never been a reason for an actual meeting. He has done a great job; many lesser accomplished guardian angels would surely have failed in his place. With a magician's touch, he has worked skillfully behind the scenes. But this time was different.
It is quite possible that Dale tried to drop me hints from afar. Even now, the Harmattan winds are gathering strength as the dry gusts give new life to the parched earth. I am quickly growing accustomed to wearing layers of dust like clothes. With such a great disturbance in the air, I understand how it would be difficult for any messages to get through. A more direct intervention must have been necessary.
As I forced liver down my throat, desperately trying to trick my stomach into acknowledging that it had no choice in the matter, I causally mentioned our travel plans to Dale. We had planned on leaving for Yaounde the following day via the easterly route by the Central African Republic. This was a trip that would take several days across what Lonely Planet describes as a 'vast trackless wasteland' separating the north from southern Cameroon.
Dale cheerfully informed us that during the past week, Chadian rebels had hit an unusually large number of vehicles on this route. While some highway banditry was typical in this region, this recent spate of assaults had also notably occurred during the day. Dale discreetly remarked that these Chadian's had a particular distaste for white Americans. It was clear that he thought we should avoid the route.
If we had left Nigeria earlier as we had planned, we might very easily have been caught up in the recent strikes. I didn't ascribe it to Dale before, but I now felt I saw his handy work in the Air Force incident. It still seems highly implausible that the Nigerian military and customs detained us for so long through hospitality and kindness. I wanted to ask Dale how he pulled that one off.
As I pushed aside the remaining liver, which curiously looked indistinguishable from the plate I had been served nearly an hour before, I thanked Dale for the update. He said he had to be going and wished us safe travels. As he was leaving, a bit incongruously he told us that if we wanted great grilled fish, we had only to look in the part of the town infamous for its prostitutes. Then he was gone.
We are no longer taking this easterly route. There is only one other realistic option, heading south west back towards the Nigerian border. This road is said to be 'rough and seldom traveled'. We will be going very slow and banditry is still a threat. But to ignore Dale's extraordinary appearance and timely advice would be particularly daft.
I met my guardian angel yesterday at a crowded roadside cafeteria in N'Gaoundere. He was unobtrusively sitting across from me, blending seamlessly in with the crowd. I was eating flavorless liver with soggy plantains. In a southern drawl more at home in Alabama or Louisiana, he said his name was Dale.
While I am certain that I have kept him busy in the past, there had never been a reason for an actual meeting. He has done a great job; many lesser accomplished guardian angels would surely have failed in his place. With a magician's touch, he has worked skillfully behind the scenes. But this time was different.
It is quite possible that Dale tried to drop me hints from afar. Even now, the Harmattan winds are gathering strength as the dry gusts give new life to the parched earth. I am quickly growing accustomed to wearing layers of dust like clothes. With such a great disturbance in the air, I understand how it would be difficult for any messages to get through. A more direct intervention must have been necessary.
As I forced liver down my throat, desperately trying to trick my stomach into acknowledging that it had no choice in the matter, I causally mentioned our travel plans to Dale. We had planned on leaving for Yaounde the following day via the easterly route by the Central African Republic. This was a trip that would take several days across what Lonely Planet describes as a 'vast trackless wasteland' separating the north from southern Cameroon.
Dale cheerfully informed us that during the past week, Chadian rebels had hit an unusually large number of vehicles on this route. While some highway banditry was typical in this region, this recent spate of assaults had also notably occurred during the day. Dale discreetly remarked that these Chadian's had a particular distaste for white Americans. It was clear that he thought we should avoid the route.
If we had left Nigeria earlier as we had planned, we might very easily have been caught up in the recent strikes. I didn't ascribe it to Dale before, but I now felt I saw his handy work in the Air Force incident. It still seems highly implausible that the Nigerian military and customs detained us for so long through hospitality and kindness. I wanted to ask Dale how he pulled that one off.
As I pushed aside the remaining liver, which curiously looked indistinguishable from the plate I had been served nearly an hour before, I thanked Dale for the update. He said he had to be going and wished us safe travels. As he was leaving, a bit incongruously he told us that if we wanted great grilled fish, we had only to look in the part of the town infamous for its prostitutes. Then he was gone.
We are no longer taking this easterly route. There is only one other realistic option, heading south west back towards the Nigerian border. This road is said to be 'rough and seldom traveled'. We will be going very slow and banditry is still a threat. But to ignore Dale's extraordinary appearance and timely advice would be particularly daft.
Monday, December 05, 2005
Banki, Nigeria
The military, my greatest fear in Nigeria, detained us for over a week in Maiduguri. It all began as we approached the outskirts of the city with a single soldier on the road. Instead of pleading for a bribe, he encouraged us to visit the Air Force Officers Mess, where supposedly every Friday a disco was held. After arriving in town and asking around, it seemed as if this was the only option. While the city of Maiduguri seeks to enforce sharia law, it sounds like they are having no luck with the military; their desire to have a few beers and dance in the evenings will not be tempered. Yet, since we've heard so many negative things about the military in Nigeria, the very idea of walking into one of their bases on a night when many of them would probably be drinking seemed ridiculous.
Nevertheless, we arrived early at the mess hall and one of the guards informed us it was a members only club. However, he would go in and check with the Major. The Major came out, said that usually they didn't allow non members in, but we could enter as his guests for the evening. Over the course of the night, we had an opportunity to chat with him and he invited us back to the club the following day for table tennis. During the next week, we found ourselves back at the Air Force Officers Mess on a daily basis. The Major took us on a tour of the city. He introduced us to a number of his friends, including his boys from Abuja: Jacko, Bosson and Joe. We were given honorary guest status at the club. All of our food and drinks for the remainder of our time in Maiduguri were on the house.
The Major also introduced us to Jamima, a reporter with Nigerian state television. She quickly took an interest in our work. After hearing that we regularly ate fara, or deep fried grasshoppers (a Maiduguri delicacy), she insisted on putting us on the air. Jamima invited us down to the station and filmed a seven minute segment on our campaign, which later led the Sunday feature.
After over a week in Maiduguri, we found it difficult to leave. Jamima, her husband Toyin, and the Major presented us each with handsome Nigerian outfits. We gave them a cake with 'To The best Nigerians Ever...' written on top, encircled with a table tennis racket, an airplane and a microphone. After having completely demolished all of my expectations about Nigeria, they have turned it into the country I wish most to return to.
We couldn't even escape the hospitality leaving Nigeria. Our team was given a personal escort to the border by the Chief of Banki Customs, where we had planned on exiting Nigeria. He ensured that while we sat and drank fantas, all of the usually rigorous paperwork and customs duties on both sides of the border would be taken care of. Our car was even washed while we waited.
Truly, the Nigeria we experienced was an unexpected joy. Although I only passed through the north, I felt angry at all the people that had spoken ill of Nigeria and tried to discourage us from coming with tales of danger, corruption and chaos. After meeting a large number of Nigerians who turned out to be the some of the best friends any of us have so far met on our journey, I know that I will be back.
The military, my greatest fear in Nigeria, detained us for over a week in Maiduguri. It all began as we approached the outskirts of the city with a single soldier on the road. Instead of pleading for a bribe, he encouraged us to visit the Air Force Officers Mess, where supposedly every Friday a disco was held. After arriving in town and asking around, it seemed as if this was the only option. While the city of Maiduguri seeks to enforce sharia law, it sounds like they are having no luck with the military; their desire to have a few beers and dance in the evenings will not be tempered. Yet, since we've heard so many negative things about the military in Nigeria, the very idea of walking into one of their bases on a night when many of them would probably be drinking seemed ridiculous.
Nevertheless, we arrived early at the mess hall and one of the guards informed us it was a members only club. However, he would go in and check with the Major. The Major came out, said that usually they didn't allow non members in, but we could enter as his guests for the evening. Over the course of the night, we had an opportunity to chat with him and he invited us back to the club the following day for table tennis. During the next week, we found ourselves back at the Air Force Officers Mess on a daily basis. The Major took us on a tour of the city. He introduced us to a number of his friends, including his boys from Abuja: Jacko, Bosson and Joe. We were given honorary guest status at the club. All of our food and drinks for the remainder of our time in Maiduguri were on the house.
The Major also introduced us to Jamima, a reporter with Nigerian state television. She quickly took an interest in our work. After hearing that we regularly ate fara, or deep fried grasshoppers (a Maiduguri delicacy), she insisted on putting us on the air. Jamima invited us down to the station and filmed a seven minute segment on our campaign, which later led the Sunday feature.
After over a week in Maiduguri, we found it difficult to leave. Jamima, her husband Toyin, and the Major presented us each with handsome Nigerian outfits. We gave them a cake with 'To The best Nigerians Ever...' written on top, encircled with a table tennis racket, an airplane and a microphone. After having completely demolished all of my expectations about Nigeria, they have turned it into the country I wish most to return to.
We couldn't even escape the hospitality leaving Nigeria. Our team was given a personal escort to the border by the Chief of Banki Customs, where we had planned on exiting Nigeria. He ensured that while we sat and drank fantas, all of the usually rigorous paperwork and customs duties on both sides of the border would be taken care of. Our car was even washed while we waited.
Truly, the Nigeria we experienced was an unexpected joy. Although I only passed through the north, I felt angry at all the people that had spoken ill of Nigeria and tried to discourage us from coming with tales of danger, corruption and chaos. After meeting a large number of Nigerians who turned out to be the some of the best friends any of us have so far met on our journey, I know that I will be back.
Thursday, November 24, 2005
Kano, Nigeria
A dark cloud hangs low over the sprawling city. Signs of commerce are evident everywhere. Once wide streets are impossibly narrow; shops spill into the streets, threatening to swallow them completely. Motorcycles weave dangerously through any space left unoccupied. In this city of 6 million, the Islamic Lagos of the north, life can be exciting. This is particularly true for motorcycle taxis. Incredibly enjoyable to ride, they are also the fastest and cheapest way to get around a city like Kano.
Yet, despite my undying love for these motorcycles, we have had our differences. Just yesterday, I crossed paths with an inattentive driver on a nearly empty road. After a fleeting collision, flesh encountering metal, I found my heart still intact but my right leg in pain. Fearing I had shattered femurs, flattened toes and tore tendons, I stumbled onto the sidewalk and quickly examined my injuries. They appeared minor. But the motorcycle and I, we were finished.
Although our encounter was unnecessarily brief due to the fact that my new friend did not have the courtesy to stick around, I have not taken it personally. When you involve yourself with motorcycle taxis, you have to be prepared for both the highs and the lows. Finding oneself left behind, damaged in the wake of a superior actor, is often unavoidable. Today I forced myself back onto the proverbial horse, seeking fresh acquaintances of the road.
A dark cloud hangs low over the sprawling city. Signs of commerce are evident everywhere. Once wide streets are impossibly narrow; shops spill into the streets, threatening to swallow them completely. Motorcycles weave dangerously through any space left unoccupied. In this city of 6 million, the Islamic Lagos of the north, life can be exciting. This is particularly true for motorcycle taxis. Incredibly enjoyable to ride, they are also the fastest and cheapest way to get around a city like Kano.
Yet, despite my undying love for these motorcycles, we have had our differences. Just yesterday, I crossed paths with an inattentive driver on a nearly empty road. After a fleeting collision, flesh encountering metal, I found my heart still intact but my right leg in pain. Fearing I had shattered femurs, flattened toes and tore tendons, I stumbled onto the sidewalk and quickly examined my injuries. They appeared minor. But the motorcycle and I, we were finished.
Although our encounter was unnecessarily brief due to the fact that my new friend did not have the courtesy to stick around, I have not taken it personally. When you involve yourself with motorcycle taxis, you have to be prepared for both the highs and the lows. Finding oneself left behind, damaged in the wake of a superior actor, is often unavoidable. Today I forced myself back onto the proverbial horse, seeking fresh acquaintances of the road.
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