Sean's Blog
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.
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