GUILT AND CAPE TOWN

Imagine Malibu without all those Californians or Santa Barbara, with a flat-topped, granite mountain just a few blocks inland from the sea.   That is Cape Town, stunningly beautiful, yet complex, where the weather is always perfect and there’s nary a cloud in the sky.

South Africa has 47 million people of which 12%, only 5 million, are white.  Just around the corner from every multi-million dollar (white) neighborhood, just over the hill from every tony beachfront (white) community, is a township teeming with (black) poverty and third-world infrastructure and containing 10x the population of the white areas nearby.  The Townships are never seen (unless, as we did,  one takes a wrong turn),  hidden off the main roads and byways.  But everyone knows they are there.   It is the third world abutting the first, with all of the spoils of the colonial era on display, in full panoramic color, a constant reminder of the imbalance between the races.  Based on mere observation, it would be easy to believe that there is a huge white majority in this country, similar to the U.S.     The only black people we see are those in the service and construction industries – waiters, housemaids and road crews. Why, Yosy and I ask ourselves, would anyone buy a $10 million house here, when 42 million people are underprivileged, without jobs, attend second class schools and live in massive shantytowns, where unemployment is above 50%?   Isn’t there a revolution just around the corner?  What will happen when 90+ year-old Nelson Mandela, who has lead the country out of apartheid and into legal equality with an obsessive insistence on peace and reconciliation, passes?  Isn’t it only a matter of time before the huge population of the black poor demand a larger share of the spoils from the whites? 

My friend Jaqui and her husband, Michael, South Africans born during the apartheid era, (which ended in the 1990’s), say that there is no need to worry.  The blacks here have seen the results of divesting the whites of their power.   Zimbabwe confiscated white farms, killed and injured many of the white citizens who had lived there for decades, going back to the time when it was known as Rhodesia, and took over control of the government.  Farming plummeted (the local population had never learned to manage the land) and inflation reached more than 1 million percent due to political mismanagement.  Zimbabwe went from a rich and well developed country to a poverty-stricken African one, where people are hungry and desperate, and corruption reigns.   The blacks of South Africa don’t want a Zimbabwe here.   It will be worse for the blacks then than it is now, say our friends, and the blacks know it.  No worries.

Still, that doesn’t alleviate the guilt, which, for me is more pervasive here than it was in much poorer West Africa, where everyone (except corrupt government officials) is equally destitute and hungry and the spoils are kept behind very high walls.   Here, the whites are well-fed, have fancy cars and homes, and good-paying jobs, while the overwhelming majority of the country is left out of the mix and without access to the good life.

Despite the guilt, I am catching up on important and much needed hygiene rituals.  Jaqui took me for a manicure, which was administered while lying down – that is, I was put on a massage table, with plush towels, while the manicurist worked on my nails.   How decadent!    I’ve had a pedicure and a facial, and I take two hot showers every day. I’ve been stuffing myself on buffet breakfasts, gourmet dinners and everything in-between.

We visited Robben Island, about 7 miles offshore, where Nelson Mandela was imprisoned for 27 years.   Former political prisoners acted as guides, while their former Afrikaan guards captained the ferries that took us to the Island.  Our guide was a prisoner from 1982 until his release in 1990, with Mandela.   He told us about the guards who buried two prisoners alive up to their necks, beat them and then forced them to drink the guards’ urine.   The prisoners survived and now work on the Island, side by side with their former guards.   That is Mandela’s Truth & Reconciliation policy in action.   As long as former tormentors tell the truth (and there are many eyewitnesses who can verify the veracity of a story), there will be no prison terms, no penalties, only Reconciliation.  It is a policy that has been successfully adopted by Rwanda after the genocide there and has helped both nations heal from their respective dark histories.

This morning, at 7 am, we climbed Lion’s Head Mountain, adjacent to Table Mountain, with Jaqui and Michael.   It took a little longer than usual, an hour rather than 45 minutes, and though not horribly strenuous, it was nevertheless fairly difficult for us New Yorkers not used to climbing much more than a flight of stairs.  We used chains, ladders and hand grabs near the top to climb the mountain’s steep, rocky face.   The 360-degree view of the sea, the mountains and the city below from the pointy top was as if from the clouds and the sky and I could have stayed there so much longer.  But some people have to work, (Jaqui & Michael) and so we made our way down fairly quickly, and had a wonderful breakfast overlooking the bay and the rocky coast.

I could easily live here (were it not for the hidden misery lurking all around, in plain sight).

 

WAHIB AND JOHN

As we pull in to our campsite for the night, which is a national animal preserve, two young boys, just pre-teen, run to greet us.    Wahib and John know the Dragoman truck, the company with which I am traveling.    Based in the UK, Dragoman offers long-haul overland travel to the remotest places on earth, providing only a fully-equipped and adapted Mercedes truck, a knowledgeable driver and group organizer, the latter charged with getting us from starting point to end point with as little hassle as possible.     He negotiates no group politics and conducts no entertainment.  He bargains the bribes (or refusal to pay them) at the ubiquitous police checkpoints, chooses the best camp sites and tries to keep us on schedule, local conditions permitting.   He decides where and when we food shop and camp.   Wahib and John greet the truck 2-3 times a year as it makes its way east to west then back again criss-crossing West Africa and, contrary to the truck’s unofficial rules, they are permitted to mingle and interact with the group.

Wherever we may be on the open rural road, whenever we stop for a meal and set up our table and food, basic as it is, we always have an audience.    Word spreads fast through the village that a truckload of foreigners has just arrived over the ridge.  The locals leave their huts and schools, workplaces and chores and run to witness the very unusual sight of white people passing through nowhere on their way to somewhere.    We drove 8 hours yesterday through northwestern Burkina, heading to Mali, and did not pass a single vehicle.  As we eat with a small crowd standing only a few feet away in a semi-circle around us, scores of pairs of eyes watch our every bite, hungry and hoping for a small scrap.  But “The Rule” for travelers now throughout Africa is “no handouts” of any kind – no food; not even leftovers, no money, no candy, no pens, no discarded articles of clothing.   “The Rule" is harsh, heart-breaking, and fails to harden the soul against the extreme poverty all around us.    We are constantly debating the pro’s and con’s of "The Rule" and look for ways to work within it without violating it, but we always come to the same conclusion:  "The Rule" is right.  If we share our food with the crowd around us, the next time the Dragoman truck or any other foreign traveler comes through, the crowd will be larger, and will come from points even further away.  If we give, rather than throw away our scraps,  there certainly will not be enough for everyone – how to choose who in the crowd receives and who does not?   Maybe we can give to the children only?    but if we do, the next time the children will be left home.   Should we simply leave our leftovers behind, in a neat, clean pile and let the hungry figure it out themselves?   The experience of those who know is that fighting among the people then breaks out and their very fragile equilibrium is destroyed, if even only temporarily.  Sharing and hand-outs seem to foster dependence as the locals will look to whites, even more than they already do, for their salvation – Ethiopia is an extreme example of this dependence.   The only way to soothe our conscience is to know, that at least this year, is a year free of drought,  and that the people are merely hungry, not starving.   They have lots of mango, cassava and banana to eat, although protein, dairy, and other food groups are rare and the craving for variety and subsistence in the menu is strong.

Wahib and John however are the exception to The Rule.   We played Frisbee and Hangman with them as the sun was setting (they beat us at both games).   They seemed to know, before we knew ourselves, when we had had enough of the game, when we needed to shower, when we needed to wash our filthy clothes or begin preparing dinner.   They disappeared minutes before we tired of the chore or the game; standing on the sidelines, watching and waiting to be called in to service, to answer a question; “where is the hot water switch?, when will the warthogs go home?”  Their English was good, they were polite.   A dropped  $5 note or ipod, was picked up and returned immediately to its owner.  The laundress who works for the park came to our site to chase the boys away but  Steve, the group leader, told her the boys could stay.   She insisted that they would steal and pester.   Steve knew these kids better.

When we ate dinner they disappeared to the shadows, without being told to do so,  sitting patiently beside our wash bowls, behind the truck.   As we ate and bantered, we had forgotten them in the dark, that they were there, quietly looking away so as not to intrude on our privacy.  Only when we began to clean up did they gently take my dish and begin scrubbing the food scraps, carefully rinsing and drying.   

We saw that Steve had prepared two huge plates of food before we even began to eat.  Sausage, rice, cooked vegetables, and lots of bread and butter.   The plates were covered and placed in a corner, given to Wahib and John only after we had finished our own meal and the dishes had been put away.    The boys ate, slowly and deliberately, in the darkness behind the truck.   But the moon was full and we saw that they were happy.

DANTE'S INFERNO

Bobo Dioulasso and Ouagadougou, (pronounced “Waga – doogoo), and known locally as “Bobo” and “Ouaga” respectively, are to Burkina Faso what Minneapolis-St. Paul are to Minnesota.   Well, almost.

According to the United Nations, Burkina, its shortened term, is the 3^rd poorest country in the world.     Ouaga , the capital, is about 85 km  north of Bobo,  the country’s second largest city.   "Burkina Faso" in the  local tribal  langugage means dignity-nobility-integrity and homeland, and is translated as “Land of the Honorable.”   The Rough Guide travel book writes that  “few countries are as unlucky as Burkina. . . . It is desperately and famously poor, with an almost total lack of  raw materials or natural resources.”    To add to its misery, it is also landlocked.  

It has mostly lived up to its reputation.

The tree-lined streets and colonial buildings (in varying states of extreme disrepair), afro-beat nightclubs and fresh-baked pastries from its many patisseries, make central Bobo a magnet for travelers and ex-pats.   But the veneer, in my opinion, is marred by the reality I experienced.   Life for the locals seems incredibly desperate and sadder than in many African cities I’ve visited thus far.

Young boys wandered the streets carrying old, empty, rusted tin cans of coffee, begging for money.   We later learned that the schools require them to spend a portion of their day accosting locals and tourists alike for donations to pay for their education.  Without the requisite quota, education is denied.

Hawkers followed us everywhere waving trinkets in our faces, pleading with us to buy their hand-made dolls, bead-necklaces and small bags of water.   One woman tried desperately to sell the 3 strawberries in her hand. 

But it was the Old Quarter that made my heart break.

Only viewable by paying a guide a negotiated $2, our 13-year old fearless leader, clearly a member of the local mafia who controlled this section of town, did his best to present the place in the best light possible.   But even he could not disguise what my eyes and ears were telling me.

Imagine a shantytown of lean-to’s made of mud brick, hot as hell with nary a tree or blade of grass in sight, no place to shelter one’s head from the blazing sun.    No sidewalks, no roads, only bone-dry hardened dirt and mud between the crowded houses.   No running water, electricity, or sewers, trash littered the streets. There was only one small, locked classroom in the Quarter’s school, code-named  “Paradise,” by officials in a miserable attempt to fool the locals.  Beggars, both old and young, wandered about, some obviously insane, talking to whomever would listen – as well as those who would not.  We’ve seen quite a lot of young children with hernias in Burkina.   These hernia are recognizable as large, long, pointed growths protruding outward several inches from near the belly button.    We were told that the hernia are created by incorrectly tying or cutting the umbilical cords at birth.    As long as the hernia did not rupture, the child would merely be deformed.   But if it did rupture, death would surely result.  Women, with babies on their backs, and babies on their hips, were pounding the cassava (manioc) into maize, while making millet beer on stoves that increased the intensity of the already oppressive heat to temperatures that can only be known in hell.  Unemployed men sat on corners with nothing to do and no hope of ever finding work.  But perhaps the most depressing sight was the “Sacred Fish River.”  Polluted with sewage, plastic bags, rotted fruits and vegetables and the trash of life, gold fish in the river were fed chickens by the residents in honor of their religion and were the size of small dogs.  While the women attempted to clean the family’s clothes in this filth, children washed and splashed about.

Residents tried their best to survive in this misery.  The hardened dirt ground in front of each hut is meticulously swept clean on a daily basis.   I saw two girls sitting on a 2 x 4  in front of a makeshift blackboard,  learning math from a third girl, not much older than themselves. While residents do their best to keep their homes and bodies clean  and  teach basic math and reading to their young, only the government can rid the public areas of massive mounds of trash, install water and sewer lines, traffic lights and walkways, and provide for the old, infirme, insane and lonely.  This government, as in most of Africa, is nowhere in sight.

I am not a good-enough writer to adequately describe the wretchedness of Bobo’s Old Quarter, but suffice it to say that I am still, three days later, haunted by it.  It was a trip to hell.

Ouaga, though, in my opinion, (which happens to be contrary to that of most other travelers), is Bobo’s better- half.   A typical African capital, there are lots of old cars and motorcycles spewing polluted fumes, streets lined with vendors and (relatively) many Europeans and other westerners working in Embassies and businesses throughout the city.   The vibe here is much more upbeat.  There are street lights at some intersections (“Pedestrian Beware” at others), several large modern buildings and sewer-lined walkways covered with blocks of cements placed in such a way that if one is not careful a foot can get caught in the spaces between the blocks.  But hey, at least there are sewers.  There is the requisite Grand Mosque and a large, modern supermarket.  We had dinner last night in a quiet, hidden garden restaurant run by nuns who also serve the food, and who, at exactly 9:30 pm, sing the “Ave Maria.”

Most of West Africa is French-speaking, so I am managing quite well here.

Tomorrow we begin our 4-day ride to the Mali border.

  

THE STRANGEST THINGS

African ingenuity in creating the semblance of a modern life amid physical hardship, scarcity of resources, and extreme poverty; in making do with next to nothing; in building buildings and roads, feeding hungry families, fending off or tending to animals and earning a measly, but difficult to obtain, $600 per year, penny by penny, so that simple necessities, such as medicine or school books, can be bought, proves that necessity is the mother of invention and that the Africans are world-class inventors.

Almost everything here is either made by hand from nature or has been modified from  used or defective items cast-off by the western world. 

Some examples of African resourcefulness and the oddest things I’ve seen so far: 

1. WATER:   Municipal water supply systems are non-existent outside of, and are extremely limited, in large cities.  Those campgrounds or hotels we’ve stayed in must therefore gerryrig their own systems with the use of a generator that huffs and puffs, wheezes and growls when operating (and then just for a few hours, which hours are never announced in advance).  Moreover, faucets do not extend far enough into the sink from their perch on the sink’s ledge.  Perhaps the undersized spout is European, while the sink is American oversized for the hardware chosen.   In any event, half the water from the spout empties into the drain, while the other half splays all over the sink edge onto the floor and feet.  When the toilet is flushed, the shower may inexplicably turn on.   When the shower is turned on, the faucet may leak.  Hot water, if available, only runs in the tiniest of trickles. A cold glass of water is only a dream.

2. CARS:  Just about all cars are old – really old.   Thirty to 40 years old and recycled from the junk piles of America or Japan.  They have been refurbished, rebuilt, and gerry-rigged decade after decade, owner by owner.  Taxi passengers are squeezed into vans stripped bare and modified with wooden bench seats arranged in a rectangle along the interior walls.   There may be no doors on the vehicle, missing floorboards, and/ or holes in the roof.  The vans may slow down along the route, but they never stop, as passengers jump on and off at will.   They are squeezed into these death traps like sardines with no room to even turn one’s head.  Only the most nimble can ride in them.  “Private” taxis, converted cars with no sign that they are meant for pubic transport, (only the cruising driver, asking if we need a ride, is evidence of its public nature) are rusted and dented;   upholstery, when it exists, is ripped to shreds, the radio slot is an empty hole, as is much of the dashboard.  The windshield is often cracked and the manual window handles are either broken or missing.   One night we were 7 plus the driver in a taxi meant for no more than 4, when we were stopped at one of the ubiquitous “traffic controls” along every roadway.  Although we were overcrowded and the vehicle was extremely low to the ground, the policeman was only interested in knowing whether the blinker worked.  Never mind the almost floorless interior and lack of seatbelts..   Although it passed the blinker inspection, a  $2 bribe got us back on the road.

3. BORDER CROSSINGS:  All frontiers crossed thus far are indicated by nothing more than a wooden or mudbrick lean-to, aslant in the middle of nowhere, with a horizontal red & white striped metal rail extending across the road, anchored on either side by two vertical poles extending up from inside large metal oil drums, also painted in red and white stripe.   Once the coveted entry stamp is made by the lone immigration officer, another sleepy African official gets up from his nest below the nearest tree, walks over to the rail and manually lifts it so that the vehicle can pass. When we crossed into The Gambia yesterday, great fanfare was made at the lonesome post.  An obviously well-fed border policeman in full regalia – starched blue uniform, rifle and bullet-proof vest - boarded the truck, inspected the vehicle’s documents and read every passport, before he gave his ok to continue.   We were sure it was his only official act in days.   Our crossing from Mali into Senegal was the definition of bedlam amid anarchy.    A convoy of large trucks carrying goods into Mali was backed up for at least a mile.  The trucks were using both lanes of the 2-lane highway to go east.   Those of us traveling west into Senegal could not get through.  It was the Romans facing Attila the Hun on the battlefield, colliding as the armies charged toward eachother creating utter chaos in the hand-to-hand combat upon meeting.   Some passengers abandoned their cars, leaving their drivers to man the steering wheels and walked the kilometer or more to reach the border patrol for the entry stamp, returning to their vehicles only to find that they had advanced forward imperceptibly.  Each vehicle was battling the next for forward motion.   The Senegal River swirled below as the mass of metal and tires convoluted itself into a twisted, intertwined mishmash of confusion made the worse by the oppressive heat from which there was no escape.  I walked over to the border patrol police and asked him to please direct the traffic so that we could get through.   Quite to my surprise, he made some hand motions and extracted us from the mess.   We were on the other side!

4. FOOD:  Shopping for food was extremely traumatic at first but I have since become accustomed to scouring the markets of small villages teeming with people and the smelly, open stalls of rotting and still breathing fish, slabs of meat awaiting chopping in the hot sun,  wrinkled peppers the size of large cashews, and rotten bananas – and this is a description of the plentiful markets.   Most markets are very limited and may contain only tomatoes and cassava, or tomatoes and bananas (tomatoes, it seems, are quite plentiful).    One day the meat which was destined to become my cook group’s Bolognese, spoiled in the truck’s broken refrigerator.  The search for that night’s dinner was no easy task.  The sole market we passed that day contained only the smallest of  tomatoes and nothing else that was edible.    We opened cans of tuna from the truck’s emergency supply and made a salad using what little we had.  I am at this moment sitting in the restaurant of the Senegalese National Animal Preserve hungry for lunch.   The only thing on the menu is an omelet and French fries.  Bananas are the only desert.   As soon as I order I am told that it is ‘fini, Madame.”  A large group had just passed through and there is no more food.   Whenever we ask "What do you have to drink, or eat?" we get a long list of available items, "Coke, Fanta, Sprite, Beer, Juice," etc., "   "Ok," we say, I'll have a coke."   "Sorry," they inevitably respond.  "No coke."   As we go through the list, we discover that perhaps, only Sprite, or juice is available.   why did they simply not tell us that at the beginning?

5.  HEAT:    At round 11 a.m., the sun suddenly, in a seeming flash, becomes white hot, blinding, relentless, oppressive, and sears the brain.  All thinking and movement comes to a standstill in the 110+ heat.  There is nothing to do but seek shelter.   But there is no air conditioning;  no mall, no restaurant within which to find refuge, not even a single cloud.    The shadow of a lonely tree is often already filled with animals and people.   The never-ending search for shade takes on epic importance and I can only dream of an ice cold drink.   The female custom of carrying items on the head creates shade for the face and makes trips to the well and market only slightly more bearable in the blazing heat.  We do have a cooler on board for drinks which is filled with blocks of ice only on the rare occasion when it is available – usually from the local morgue.   We are reduced to grabbing a chip off the ice block to rub onto our sun bleached, red hot necks and chests – a/c the old-fashioned way – by earning it!

6.   ANIMALS:    We’ve seen a donkey being transported on a motorcycle, some goats on the top of a long-haul truck, apparent dinner, and today, as we crossed the Gambia River, we saw one of the strangest sights yet.  We were making the 3 minute crossing by ferry at a point where the river is not very wide – perhaps only 2,000 feet.  Someone needed to get his cow from one side of the river to the other and didn’t want to pay the ferry fee.   He put a rope around his cow’s neck and had it swim adjacent to his dug-out canoe.    He used the rope to keep the poor cow’s head above water so that it wouldn’t drown, while his friend paddled.  We stood on the far bank rooting for the cow and cheering her on.   Much to our surprise, the cow bounded out of the water as if it had been through no trauma at all, happy to have cooled off a bit.   She had evidently done this crossing before.

7.  ROADS:  African governments’ tradition of doing absolutely nothing for its people renders roads in West Africa less than ideal, barely passable really, more like foot paths of packed dirt and mud.  Like car commercials on television, the driver must slalom to and fro to navigate the large potholes, various road kill, cows, goats and the occasional rolled- over tractor-trailer.  A 150 mile trip took us 8 hours several days ago.  We saw scores of men digging a miles-long trench by hand, with only rudimentary tools, working like a chain gang, when one small bulldozer could have accomplished the same task in 1/10 the time.  One road was so narrow that we had to choose between closing the windows in the oppressive heat, or leaving them open and risk getting whacked in the face by tree branches and their leaves.  The roads are also notable for the arbitrary positioning of the frequent police checkpoints along the main road (and I use the singular here, because there is always just one main road per country).   The police stop vehicles at random and pretend to peruse vehicle and passenger document information.  Any small technicality is sometimes used to extract a “fine” from the driver.   Since the truck we are riding in is from the UK, the steering wheel is on the right.   The passenger reclining in the left front seat is often mistaken for a driver asleep at the wheel and the police board the truck to try and locate the steering wheel!  In The Gambia, the police board simply to welcome us and to chat – to find out where we are all from and to ask for a cold glass of water (which we don’t have).

8. THE SOCCER BALL:  Above our seats on the truck, in netted catch-alls, are storage bins for small items.  One passenger brought two blow-up soccer balls from home, both of which have lost most of their air to small holes.  Whenever we stop for gas or a market, children flock to the truck and talk to those sitting at the windows.  After only a minute or two, they inevitably spot the balls overhead, and beg for it.  One mother pleaded, “Please, give me the ball for my boy.”  They seem to want the ball more than they want food or money.  “The Rule” (see post entitled “Wahib and John”), prohibits us from giving it to them.   Which child among the scores outside the windows would get it?  If we simply tossed a ball outside, would they fight over it, with the strongest getting the prize?  We have yet to decide how to get the balls off the truck and into the hands of the kids, but we are determined to leave the balls in Africa.  

9. Some things we couldn’t help but notice:

1. Pubs with no beer;
2. Dartboards with no darts;
3. Waterholes with no water;
4. Markets with no food;
5. Bakeries with no bread;
6. Morgues with no ice;
7. World maps with no New Zealand;
8. Schools with no students;
9. National Parks with no animals;
10. WiFi with no internet;
11. Restaurants with no food;
12. Showers with no water;
13. Sockets with no light bulbs;
14. 3G with no access;
15. Cars with no seatbelts or doors;
16. ATM’s with no money;
17. Sun with no shade;
18. Sea view restaurants, with no sea view;
19. Sewers with no covers;
20. Police with no morals;
21. Merchants with no change;
22. Life with no hope.

THE OKAVANGA DELTA

Imagine that a continent’s major river, call it The Congo, starts at your shoulder (Angola).   As it descends your arm (“The Panhandle’) and spreads into your palm, its name changes to Kavanga (in Namibia) and finally Okavanga (in Botswana).   With no outlet to the sea, the river is swallowed by the sands of the Kalahari Desert as it branches out into your fingers, consumed by the thirsty air, and losing itself in a maze of lagoons, channels and islands.  That, in a non-pictorial nutshell, is the Okavanga Delta, the pride of landlocked Botswana, a nationally protected and uninhabited preserve and  major tourist Mecca for animal lovers, hunters, explorers, researchers and the otherwise just plain curious.

Roughly the size of Texas, Botswana is almost totally covered with scrub bush and savanna grasslands, which together facilitate vast migrations of wildlife rarely seen elsewhere on the continent. 

Botswana is also a political and economic success story, despite its notoriety as having the highest percentage (38%) of HIV infected population.  Shortly after gaining independence from colonial rule in 1966, one of the world’s three richest diamond-bearing formations was found here.   With the exception of South Africa, Botswana is the most economically and politically stable country in sub-Saharan Africa with high standards of education and health care.   But a frantic fight for alternative revenue is in high gear.   The mines are thought to contain only 35 years of diamond-supply. There is scant alternative mineral wealth and foreign investment is mostly limited to diamond mining.  Observers are worried about the country’s future.

Despite its standing as one of the best managed countries in Africa, it’s championship title compares it to a continent of misfits, madmen, kleptocrats and massive dysfunction.

Lest we forget, this is still Africa.

We headed west along the border where 4 countries – Angola, Zimbabwe, Namibia and Botswana meet and reached the river crossing that would take us to the tip of the Okavanga Delta’s Panhandle, to begin our descent into its heart.  It was the typical African ferry crossing.  Only one “ferry,” more like a cargo raft, makes the 5-minute crossing and is large enough for a single small bus and a jeep.   Passengers hung on to the ferry’s chains, the only barrier protecting them from the croc-infested water.  We landed with a clunk. The truck was either too high or the ferry too low.  The front fender and underbody slammed into the mound of dirt operating as an off-ramp.  No problem.  The Africans are ready for every eventuality that may happen on a regular basis.   The truck reversds onto the ferry, and two metal strips, purposely bent to imitate a dip, are placed by the passengers (one of whom burned his hand touching the metal which had been sitting in the sun for God-knows how long) in front of the truck, creating the height needed to exit the ferry.   We were on our way.

An hour later we reached our destination which was at the end of a sandy road in the middle of nowhere.  Waiting for us were our “Polers,” natives trained to steer the “mokoro”, a flat-bottomed dug-out that floats in as little as one foot of water.  We carried our considerable amount of stuff:  sleeping bags, cooking equipment, food, eating utensils, water jerrycans, etc., etc., etc., through the brush and sand, cow dung and cows, straining under the weight of our “essentials,” until we reached the water’s edge, where the mokoros were waiting – one for every two people.  Only one Poler and his long pole, a simple wood stick, pushed us along.  We were sitting low to the water.   There was only a thin sheet of wood that separated our bottoms from the water’s surface.  The 1 ½ hour boat voyage to our campsite was through a veritable wonderland of flora and fauna, void of the sound of human voice and punctuated intermittently by the  palpable grunt of hippos and singing birds. 

Despite its narrow and low –to- the- water construction, the mokoro was extremely stable, comfortable and dry.  Its pointy bow split the tall grasses before us effortlessly and silently, dividing reed and papyrus right down the middle as Moses parted the Red Sea, allowing us to gracefully glide forward.

Our campsite was a deserted island in the heart of the Delta.   Unfenced, at water’s edge, I was petrified to leave my tent to pee during the night.   Hippos, which have no sweat glands, remain in the water all day long, coming up for air every 5-7 minutes to breathe.  They graze on the river’s banks under cover of night.  If one gets between a hippo and the water he’s done for it.  Hippos are extremely aggressive in such situations and can charge with such ferocity and force that death to the interloper is almost certain.   I heard the hippos grunting all night.   Adding to the drama was the threat of hyenas lurking behind a bush and who knows what else.    I peed immediately behind our tent.

The next morning the mokoros took us further afield during a sunrise that lit the hundreds of white and lavendar lily pads and tall grasses with a glow of yellow and orange.  Suddenly I heard the telltale hippo grunt again – this time directly under the mokoro!    My heart stopped beating for a split second.   Will the nasty creature overturn our boat?  We were in only a very few feet of water.   I held on to my camera for dear life. Immediately we entered into an open lake-like area of the Delta where the hippos were cavorting.  The grunts I heard had traveled under water which had magnified the sound.  

We arrived at another island for a “nature walk.”  Our first sighting was an elephant.   Good thing our tracker/poler sighted him first.   He was agitated and not in a good mood. (the elephant, not our poler)  We backed off and crouched behind a bush until the elephant took off in the other direction.    The island was awash in zebra, monkey, oryx, warthog and other wildlife.   All of which we were able to observe fairly closely in full living color.

The trip back to “civilization,” in reverse, from isolated camp site to “big city,” was long – load our gear and ourselves off the island campsite and into the mokoros, and pole back to  middle of nowhere on the mainland, hike through the scrub and bush, loaded with stuff,  finally reaching the truck which was waiting for us in the same spot – under the shade of a lonely baobab tree. 

But the trip on the main road would prove to be even longer.

As we attempted to drive around a tree in the middle of the dirt road, we got bogged down in sand up to the middle of the back wheel.   The guys dug almost to the other side of the world to no avail.  Villagers appeared out of nowhere to watch the spectacle, as did some guy strolling down the road with a rifle laid horizontally across his shoulders, striding as if he owned the highway.   We flagged down a passing truck, and although it had no chain, it volunteered to wait as a villager ran back to get one.   He appeared, huffing and puffying some 15 minutes later with a rope – a rope!  A simple fiber cord. What was he thinking????  Another villager soon thereafter came to the rescue with a real, but flimsy metal chain.   After hooking the chain to the pulling truck, a passing army truck took its place in the back to push.   The cows were shooed away from the area, and with one giant heave - ho, a perfectly synchronized push from the back and pull from the front, the chain snapped.  Yosy took out his lucky thick nylon rope that he never leaves home without  - 5-star Paris hotel or an afternoon of cross-country skiing in the backyard - and, wrapping it around the broken chain and flimsy village cord, we tried again.   As the pushing truck and the pulling truck took their places, we counted down – 3-2-1.  One more heave-ho and we were out of the hole and on our way!  

Tomorrow we leave for Chobe, the second of Botswana’s major tourist havens, another animal preserve and home to a thousand elephants and other wildlife.   It will be the last 2 nights of camping before we finish the trip in Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe and begin making our way back to New York.

I hope you’ll look at the photos which probably tell this story better than this entry.

TRAPPED IN THE GAMBIA!

Before I left the US, I obtained all the entry visas I knew I would need – Ghana, Mali and Burkina Faso.    Senegal does not require visas for US citizens and The Gambia was not on my radar.   It was added to the itinerary at the very last minute to compensate for the strong possibility that a large portion of Mali – the most important part of the trip – would be eliminated due to terrorism and kidnapping concerns.   I had no time to apply for the Gambia visa but knew that visas are routinely issued at border entries.   Everyone on the trip, I told myself, would need to get the visa in country.   We would all sink or swim together.  

I should have known better.   This is Africa.

The Gambia – and it is officially known as The Gambia, not the Gambia, or even Gambia, (and not to be confused with the Gambia River, which flows through it)- is the most bizarrely shaped country in Africa – perhaps in the world,   It  has peculiar road management policies and while its entry standards are quite relaxed, it is a stickler for the technically perfect exit, a conundrum for the traveler without a clue and a giant problem for someone in the undesirable position of having been unknowingly granted unauthorized entry who wants to get out.

Imagine a country as thin as a finger, beginning at Africa’s Atlantic coast and extending eastward, 2/3 through the center of another country – Senegal.   To get from northern to southern Senegal one must drive around the eastern edge of The Gambia, which slices Senegal almost in half.   The Gambia itself, only 25 miles wide, north to south, is composed mostly of the Gambia River, which dissects the narrow country in two, flowing eastward from the Atlantic.

I learned quickly enough that although Americans are required to have a visa to enter The Gambia, all of my travel companions, who hail from the UK, Australia, New Zealand and Holland, are exempt.   Only I would have to pray to the gods that the sentry on duty at the Gambia-Senegal border would grant me entry.  If he did not, I would have to leave the group and find a way to meet them at our final destination in Senegal. But where would I get a taxi?   The border is in the middle of nowhere with not even a donkey cart in sight. 

We arrived at the border just before closing – close to 5pm – a good time, we thought, to get waved through as the border guards surely were ready to close up shop and head home.  I nervously waited to know my fate.  After only a few minutes I got my entry stamp – good for 28 days.  We were in!   Because of its last minute addition to the itinerary, The Gambia was a new destination for the two group leaders.  They were as ignorant as we regarding its peculiarities.

.

We made our way west across the entire length of the country to Banjul, The Gambia’s capital, which sits on the Atlantic Ocean, and enjoyed two days of beach, reliable internet, plentiful (but cold) showers and good food.

Getting out was not as easy.

We needed to go north, up to Senegal, to reach our final destination, Dakar, also on the Atlantic coast and only about 75 miles north Banjul. 

But we were south of the Gambia River and the Senegalese border was on it’s other side.  There are only two places in all of The Gambia where the river can be crossed – by ferry as there are no bridges.  One of those crossing was in Banjul, not far from where we were staying.   The Lonely Planet cautions that trucks are often held up at the Banjul ferry crossing for 3 weeks.   We got there  early – about 6:30 am, a full 1 ½ hours before the ferry opened for business but we were not the first one’s there.   We were promised that we would cross on the second ferry going out.   We waited patiently in our place on line for the 9 am ferry.   As soon as it pulled into port, there was mass chaos as trucks and other vehicles jockeyed for position and in the frenzy blocked all movement.  The ferry workers wanted us to pay for our passage, but we were reluctant to give them any money without a guarantee that we would actually board.   We pulled out of line and headed east, the direction from which we had arrived,  halfway across the country inland to the only other river crossing.   The nightmare was only beginning.

There is only 1 road in The Gambia.  The Trans-Gambia Highway  which runs the east-west length of the narrow country.   Although it is 4-lanes wide, the road is completely, 100% unpaved and is a broad, red dirt boulevard of potholes the size of small craters, donkey and cow crossings, and the most inept, inefficient system of immigration, traffic and military controls I have ever witnessed.    An immigration post is stationed approximately every 20 miles, the purpose of which was never made clear to us.  Some immigration officials waved us on, but most forced us to stop in order to inspect documents.  It didn’t matter really which documents we produced – the  vehicle’s registration papers, personal drivers’ licenses, trip brochures, engine operation manuals –  the officials seemed to simply be seeking something to do; some entertainment to pass their very long days.   Most of the officers boarded the bus to chat – “where are you from?, “where are you going?, how do you like The Gambia?”   They were thrilled to report the latest UK soccer scores or inspect the interior of the strange- looking truck that we are traveling in.   Some officials though, apparently needed more distraction from their boredom.  Quite a few asked to review each and every one of the 18 passports on board.  Passengers were matched up with their pictures and visas were inspected.  When we explained at each stop that just 20 miles back we had already been through immigration control, we were told that we were now in a different jurisdiction and that these officials had responsibility for the new area we had entered.   When we asked for a document from the inspecting officials to carry to the next stop that would attest to our legal entry, we were told that that would be impossible – the inspecting official has no authority to issue such paper.

As if this wasn’t torture enough, there was a military or police stop within feet of every second immigration control post.  They too, were curious and bent on fulfilling their job descriptions with gusto.   Somewhere near the 25^th traffic control, when our driver was asked for the 24th time where he was from, he responded, as he had before that he was from the UK.  The inspecting officer did not understand his response and he asked again.   Frustrated, tired, hot and pissed-off, the driver responded, that he was from “England, you know, your former colonial master.”  Lucky for us, the official laughed.  We were put through he same inspection and Q & A routine, stop after stop, time and again, every hour, and it quickly began to wear on our nerves.  Would we reach nirvana – the other side of the narrow river, so easily swimmable; so near, yet so far, - before twilight when driving is no longer an option for safety reasons?

We reached the second ferry crossing but were turned back so that the truck could get weighed.   We got through the weighing station, and along with other trucks, buses, pick-ups, and cars, we were squeezed, shoved  and rammed onto the overcrowded raft.   It took only 5 minutes to cross to the other side, but it took 11 hours to cover the 185 mile trip to the ferry, an average of 17 miles per hour.

Once we finally hit terra firma on the north side of the river, we pulled to the side of the road and pitched our campsite, exhausted and infuriated at the waste of time and human resources.  We were only 10 miles from the border with Senegal where we could finally leave The Gambia behind.

In the morning, we were the first to show up at the border.   Yet again, Immigration (with a capital “I” this time) inspected our passports, the last stop before we would finally pass through  border control.  My entry “visa” as it turns out, which Gambian border officials had stamped into my passport 5 days previous, was not really a visa, but a "tourist stamp" and, I was told,  had been in the country illegally.  There was nothing the Immigration Chief could do.    I would have to proceed to the border and pray.   As I was walking out the door, dejected and almost in tears, he called me back.    “Wait,” he said.   I can issue a backdated entry visa which would indicate a legal entry.  The cost?   A mere $40, which he put directly into his pocket. 

“Almost there”, I thought! 

 But, no, this is Africa.

No ink in the stamp pad.

No working pen with which to sign.

I thought I would explode.   Maybe I should have waited to hand over the $40.

Within moments,  ink and a pen appeared from somewhere, and I was on my way, heading over the border into Senegal.    I was never so happy to leave a country before!

 

ZIM OR ZAM?

The long overland journey has finally ended.  We made it over the border and  to our last destination – Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe. 

One of the Seven Natural Wonders of the World, Victoria Falls  are fed by the Zambezi River which, after falling over the largest waterfall drop in the world, eventually empties into the Indian Ocean.

Last year we visited the Falls, which straddle both Zimbabwe and Zambia.  The big debate is where the view is better – Zim or Zam?   I can say that each viewpoint has its advantages, although the spray is so strong that we were sopping wet, through to our underwear, in both countries.     I wrote last year about our departure from the Zimbabwe airport.   Robert Mugabe, one of the world’s worst despots, turned what was formerly known as Rhodesia, into one of Africa’s worst basket cases of dysfunction and poverty, and created hyperinflation that exceeded one million per cent.  He has robbed the mineral-rich country blind and has socked away BILLIONS in private foreign bank accounts.   The country recently stopped printing trillion dollar notes and switched to the US dollar as its official currency.    The difference the changeover has made in just a year is stark.  Whereas last year the airport was dismally and barely lit and had nothing – absolutely nothing – no food, no drink, nothing in the shops - this year the tiny terminal was bursting with tourists and nourishment was plentiful, as we waited patiently to check in for our flight to Johannesburg.   And, the electricity worked!


Johannesburg is enormous, sprawling over a huge geographic area.   We rented a car in this left -side driving country.   Not a great idea.  Yosy lost his license (er, "misplaced" it . . . somewhere in the world), so I had to handle the LIE-rush-hour-type traffic from the airport to the hotel with the manual drive rental.   Not only is driving on the left, so is the stick gear, as well as the blinkers and the windshield washers - all is reversed.   Yosy was screaming at me the whole way, to "shut off the window shield washers," and to stop hugging the left curb.   It wasn't fun

But back in Zim, we had high tea at the gorgeous Victoria Falls Hotel, housed in a 1904 colonial building that sits high on a hill overlooking the narrow gorge and the Falls. The Hotel was the setting for the movie The African Queen, with Bogie & Bacall.   For dinner we tried smoked crocodile appetizer and medium-rare warthog.   I can highly recommend both.

While Jozi is not as stunningly beautiful as Cape Town (in fact, its not pretty at all), there seems to be a much greater mixing of the races here.   With a thriving black middle class, blacks are patrons and not just the employees of the shops and restaurants.  This city is bustling and very alive.   It feels more cosmopolitan and sophisticated. 

We spent hours yesterday at the incredible Apartheid Museum, which I can write pages  about, but will spare you, since we are about to leave for an (escorted) bike tour through Soweto, the largest black township in the country.   No Township in the world has as much historical and politcal resonance as Soweto.  Created in 1904 to move non-whites out of the city but close enough to provide workers, it is the birthplace of the uprising against apartheid and former home of two Nobel Prize winners (Nelson Mandela and Desmond Tutu).   

Tomorrow we fly home.   

NORTHERN NAMIBIA

Thirteen days of travel northward in Namibia and (other than the City of Swakopmund; pop: 20,000) we’ve seen three people.   Not a village, town or even a compound has crossed our path.   Where are all the Namibians?  Does anyone live here?

 It would take another few days before we bumped into the 2 million who call this place home.

In the meantime though, the scenery is spectacular.   Hundreds of kilometres of red sand desert or rocky wilderness.  Gorgeous rust-colored granite mountains or green valleys appear mirage-like, around a corner, lit up by the diffused sunlight of a foggy morning or  shrouded in ambiguity as stormy,  lightening-filled skies loom on the horizon.  It is the joining of the western and eastern thirds of the US; Big-Sky Montana, Utah and Nevada meet New England in the vast emptiness of the moon.

Namibia is not like the rest of Africa.   Tap water is potable.  Hot water, electricity and paved roads abound.  There are clean, well-lit and well-stocked supermarkets.  And unlike West Africa, the heat and frenzy of a desperate people are absent.

We drove along Namibia’s western shore, known as the Skeleton Coast for its treacherous shoreline.  According to the guidebook, early Portuguese sailors called it “As Areias do Inferno” (The Sands of Hell), as once a ship washed ashore, the fate of the crew was sealed.

Our first stop outside of Swakopmund was Cape Cross, home to thousands of seals sunning themselves and playing in the surf.  It smelled awful but it was so much fun to view the seals up close and personal – milking from their mothers’ breasts (what are seals’ breasts called anyway?), playing in the ocean and lazing on the sand beneath the boardwalk on which we walked, meandering among them.

We bush-camped at Spitzkoppe (“Pointy Head” in Afrikaans) and saw 6,000 year-old drawings painted in caves that sheltered the descendants of the original Man, and watched as both the sunrise and sunset transformed the valley into spectacular shades of orange, red, mint green and white.  (See photos at above link).

But the highlight so far was the visit with the San Bushmen including a night of camping in their village.  The San were the original inhabitants of Southern Africa.   Only 2,000 of the 30,000-member tribe remain in the bush,  hunting and gathering as they have for 300 hundred centuries – an astounding 30,000 years!.   The majority however are in transition.  This generation is the first to have moved permanently out of the bush, settling on land given to them by the government.  For them hunting is only done at the supermarket.   But the gathering of nuts, berries, medicinal plants, and beauty supplies is still practiced. 

We turned off the main road and drove along what can only be described as sand pathways which twisted and turned amongst the scrub, knee-high bushes and the occasional tree, traveling deep into their tribal past.  Arriving at last, we had our first encounter with aboriginal Namibians.

The main sources of income now for the San are government subsidies and tourism.  As we pitched our camp they changed from their “street” clothes into their bush costumes, transforming their village into a living museum, to teach us what it was like to have lived in the bush, completely dependent on hunting and gathering for survival.

 The San is a complex egalitarian society without hierarchy, and because they were never able to build up a surplus of food, full-time leaders and bureaucrats never emerged.  There were no aninals, crops or possessions; no ownership and no Chief.   While it has been noted in 17^th century literature that their lifestyle was “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short,” recent ethnographic data has shown that “hunter-gatherers worked fewer hours and enjoyed more leisure time than members of industrial societies.” (Lonely Planet).

When the school bell clanged loudly at 7 am, children came running from all directions, darting barefoot in the sand and bush, scurrying between the donkeys and acacia trees to get to their classrooms before the bell stopped ringing.  We rose with them and spent almost 3 hours on foot learning about San traditions and their secrets of survival.   The San alphabet contains 4 different clicking sounds,  mesmerizing to hear – I could listen to them speak all day -  and extremely difficult to mimic (hopefully, the video at the above link will be audible enough to detect the clicks, clacks and snaps of their tongues and palates).    After dinner they entertained us with traditional song and dance and answered our multitude of questions with humor, patience and grace.  The night was cloudless and the southern sky was ablaze with stars; the Milky Way dazzled, undimmed by the bright lights of the faraway city.

The next day we were off to Etosha National Park, at 20,000 sq. kilometers it ranks among the world’s greatest wildlife preserves.  Its name, which means “Great White Place of Dry Water,” is taken from the greenish-white Etosha Pan, an immense, flat saline desert, and is home to a great diversity of wildlife, including lions, oryx, wildebeest, giraffes, zebras and rhinos, to name just a few of the animals we saw, some of which were crossing the dirt road we were driving on.  (No walking is allowed in the park – or even stopping to pee - way too dangerous to exit the vehicle.)

We are now in northernmost Namibia, on the banks of the Kavango river, which separates it from Angola, just a stone’s throw away.  Tomorrow we enter Botswana and the Okavango Delta, THE place to be in southern Africa, where we will canoe the delta for 2 days and nights.

Ex Africa semper aliquid novi: Out of Africa always something new (Pliny, The Elder)

My last full day in Africa turned out to be just about the best.

We spent 4 hours biking through Soweto today and felt completely comfortable and not at all threatened.   The Township, with between 4-6 million people, is vibrant and pulsates with energy and the lively beat of life.  Created in the the early 1900's to segregate blacks from the white community, it was built only 17 km from the center of Johannesburg so that cheap labor could commute to the nearby gold mines, white homes, and other businesses.  While there is extreme poverty in the “3^rd class” neighborhoods, the 1^st  &  2^nd class areas are clean, well-maintained, walkable and typical of many Saturday morning lower and middle-class suburbs all over America.

We drank homemade beer from a calabash in a shebeen (pub), had lunch in a local restaurant and visited Nelson Mandela’s house.  We walked Hector Pieterson Square, the birthplace of the anti-apartheid movement which began when Hector, age 13, was shot dead in 1976 while marching peacefully for the abolition of South Africa’s racist laws.   Desmond Tutu and Winnie Mandela, as well as many black South African musicians and other celebrities have chosen to continue to live in Soweto, rather abandon ship and move to “better” (i.e. white)  neighborhoods, a fact that is so very different from the reality of African-American stars, professionals and successful business owners,  who leave their childhood homes as soon as possible rather than stay and improve the ghettoes in which they grew up.  

We would have stayed longer and taken the night tour of the local shebeens, jazz clubs and other music venues, but its dinner at a fancy African restaurant and early to bed.   I have plans for us to drive to Pretoria, South Africa's capital, tomorrow, only 50 km away.   (Ssshhhh ...... don't tell Yosy).   We don't have to be at the airport for our flight home until 5pm.

Hector Pieterson, 1976, in arms of his friend)

Africa is mystic; it is wild; it is a sweltering inferno;

It is a photographer’s paradise, a hunter’s Valhalla, an escapist’s Utopia.

It is what you will, and it withstands all interpretations.

It is the last vestige of a dead world or the cradle of a shiny new one.

 It is all these things but one thing – it is never dull.

                                                                                      - Beryl Markham

                                   

SKYDIVING IN NAMIBIA!

We drove for 3 full days in Namibia passing only 2-3 towns, each with a population of less than 10, and all of them German.   Where are all the natives in this vast, empty land?

On its east coast, Namibia is home to the world’s oldest, driest desert in the world as well as the Kalahari, in the west, a semi-arid desert,  which is covered with trees and criss-crossed by ephemeral rivers and fossil watercourses.   Namibia’s clear blue skies stretch out as far as the eye can see into the open horizons and has one of the lowest population densities on the planet -  318,500 square miles (825,000 sq. km)  shared by only 2.1 million people – or 1/10  sq. mile per person – lots of elbow room for the ancestors of the German colonials who occupied the country in the late 1880’s.  The Afrikaans invaded the country at Britian’s urging after World War I, then known as South-West Africa, and proceeded to claim all of its valuable diamond and mineral mines, including uranium, as its own.   Apartheid was official policy here until 1990 when, with the help of Cuban and Angolan rebels, including Che Guevera, Namibia finally achieved independence.

Day 3 in country we rose at 5 am to witness sunrise over the red sand dunes and the nearby “sussevlei.”   The dunes, all of which are numbered, (we visited Dune 45, reknowned for its perfect viewing position), rise as high as 1,000 feet (300 meters) and extend to the Atlantic Coast.  The sand is extremely fine grained, deep rust red and undulate for miles, their varying heights hiding the horizon.  We climbed along the ridge of the dune, which is easier than climbing from the side.  But easy, it was not.  The sand is thick and heavy and I sunk up to my ankles.   Each time I stepped forward I had to remove a foot from below the sandy surface.   I finally realized that if I walked fast enough into the footsteps of the person in front of me the sand was more compact and easier to navigate (hadn’t MJ told us that before we started out?).   During the 20 -30 minutes it took to reach the summit, I had to stop several times to catch my breath.   I hope that the photos, posted at the link above, capture just a small fraction of the studpendous panorama that we discovered when the sun poked its brilliance out from behind the distant dune.

Mark dragged his foot like a heavy weight the whole way and reached the summit with the rest of us.    No help (pretend or otherwise) needed.  (See below post for explanation.)

Hungry for breakfast, we ran down the side of the steep dune, enjoying the warmth of the sand on our feet, falling and rolling most of the way to the bottom, where eggs and bacon awaited our arrival.

Next, we walked about 15 minutes to the “Soussevlei.”   A combination of both Namib and German words, meaning “dead lake.”  Once, about 900 years ago, there was a lake with trees here, fed by a nearby river.   The slow but steady enlargement of the dunes blocked the river from feeding the lake, drying it up completely and killing the trees.   Only their trunks and branches remain, slowly petrifying in the dry desert air.   We had no idea what to expect.   It was unique; a sight we had never seen.   Other-worldly. 

On Wednesday morning we pulled into Swakopmund, “Adrenaline Capital of Southern Africa.”   Just 2 hours later we were quad biking on the sand dunes, riding their crests and valleys, twisting and turning with the land.  Once I learned to trust the bike, I ran at full-throttle and the 3-hour trip ended with me wanting more.

The City of Swakopmund is a strange place.   A combination of German colonial buildings and vacation homes,  the architecture of both and the prevalence of the German and Afrikaans languages and people, are completely out of sync with the surrounding desert and its location on the African continent.   Its claim to fame is that it is the location of  the birth of Shiloh, Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt's baby as well as its designation as Namibia's second largest city, after the capital, Windhoek.  It is modern, clean, well-stocked and full of people – 20,000!   This is the first significant center of population we’ve seen since leaving Cape Town 5 days ago.  

I had heard since last year that the thing to do here was to skydive over the desert.   I was determined not to.   The risk far outweighed the benefit.   But I couldn’t help myself.   I signed my life away and off we went.

We were driven to the center of nowhere, about 15 minutes outside of town.   We knew we had arrived when we saw the plane -  a zebra, polka-dotted, single engine, Red Baron thing, with no door,  that looked like a relic from World War II.   Once the 5-minute briefing was over, I donned the jumpsuit, and was chosen to be the first to jump (It must have been the “B” in Bernstein – I should have registered under my maiden name – “Waldman").  

We jumped tandem  with professionals who have a well-known reputation for safety and skill.  As I climbed into the plane with “Jack,” I was suddenly not at all nervous, although I hadn’t slept the night before and was praying for bad weather so that the jump would be postponed.   He had a way of making me feel relaxed and comfortable.   As we climbed to jump altitude (10,000 feet – 3,000 meters) I relished the view from the open door.  It was simply stunning.    Except for Swakopmund  (named for the Swakop River which empties into the Atlantic at the southern end of the Town), all I could see were sand dunes - thousands and thousands of sand dunes -  stopping only when they met the coast, swelling, heaving, surging, undulating as far as the eye could see, then quickly flattening out as we climbed higher and higher.  

When it was time to jump, my jacket was attached to Jack's and I sat in front of him, between his legs, with our feet dangling outside the plane.    I think he pushed.   All I know is that we were suddenly airborne.   I saw the plane disappear into a tiny speck above me as I felt the adrenal rush of 35 seconds of freefall – 185 miles per hour – with total clarity, vision and calm.   Once the chute opened it was as if I was floating through air, breathing effortlessly as I swam in a cool, calm lake  for the remaining 7 minutes of flight.  The landing was painless and easy, and the Group and Yosy had seen everything from down below.   They all cheered as I touched down.  It was time for Victim # 2 to make his way to the plane.

But I was still flying.

MARK

Leg 2  started with the typical African bang.  Just outside of Cape Town the cops stopped us.  Our vehicle, we were told, had been ticketed several months ago for document failure.   Although all  docs are now in order, a trip to the closest police station/magistrate’s office is required so that the “OK” can be entered in the country’s computer system and we can avoid further stops along the route.  A mere two hours later and the problem is fixed.   No one is bribed, everyone is pleasant and alert,  the computers work and the office is air- conditioned. 

We’re not in West Africa anymore!

The roads are well-paved with painted, bright- white divider lines.   There are gas stations with gas, and surprise!  convenience stores with lots of food and clean bathrooms that flush.  As we travel along South Africa’s western coast the wind is hot, the temperature even hotter, above 105 degrees, and the landscape is barren desert, reminiscent of the Sinai Peninsula.   We are parched, soaking wet from perspiration and tired from near-dehydration.  There is no water tank on this truck but we can buy ice cold drinks (YES!  ice cold drinks!)  at every pit stop.   We drink as if we have been wandering in the Sahara for days. 

But the biggest surprise so far, this Leg, was the appearance of Mark from Connecticut.   The Leg 1 group talked quite a bit about him.   With a severely deformed and useless left hand and right foot, Mark had been part of the Leg 1 group that had started in January in Doula, Cameroon.   He never made it though to Accra, Ghana, where I  joined.   Apparently he had been stalking Alice, a fellow passenger, for quite some time.  According to the group, Alice first tried ignoring, and then strenuously rejecting his advances.   When that didn’t work the group leaders gave Mark several lectures, then stern warnings, but he persisted to an intolerable point.  With the blessing of the main office in the UK, he was summarily dismissed from the trip and left somewhere in Togo to make his own way home …… or wherever.   He had been variously described by the West Africa group as “weird, ” or by the more generous among them as, “nice, but weird.”  He slept in the truck, not in a tent, kept mostly to himself, didn/'t  share, and failed to help, even when he could, with the considerable amount of work that was required – food shopping, preparing, cleaning, lifting, etc., to summarize just a few of the descriptions I heard.

The new, Leg 2 group met at 6pm sharp in Cape Town for a pre-departure briefing.   There were only 11 of us:   Mark, the Constable from the UK;  John, the  Continental pilot from Missouri, now living in Guam;  3 Norwegian girls, newlyweds from Sydney; and Margaret, also from the UK.   The 11^th person arrived late, halfway through the meeting. 

I knew it was him as soon as he entered the room.    His left arm and right foot were cruelly palsied and he was a little “off.”     But how could the company, I thought, banish him from one trip, only to allow him to rebook a new trip, in a new country, with a new group, just 7 weeks later?   Where had he been for the past 2 months?   How had he survived Africa, with his significant handicap?   Did the new group leader know his history?

I would have to wait to know the answers.

Meanwhile, as we made our way north, crossing the border from South Africa into Namibia was not uneventful. 

Namibia, which means, "vast dry plain," and  previously “owned” by South Africa, became independent only in the 1990’s, and, particularly in the south, benefited from the white Afrikaan and German settlers that had previously ruled and continue to live here.

The border crossing was surprisingly neat and organized.   The post was large, clean, paved and air-conditioned.  Order, not chaos, reigned.

 Could this be Africa, I wondered?

Just as we were approaching Immigration, we suddenly realized that Yosy may have a problem entering the country and stopped short in our tracks.

When Yosy tried to use his American passport to check-in for his flight out of JFK, he was told that he wouldn’t be allowed to board for 2 reasons:  (1)  The American Express credit card used for purchasing the ticket did not match the American Express credit card he presented at check-in, and, as if that wasn’t enough, (2) his passport had only 1 blank page remaining, not the internationally required 3 blank pages for posting entry visa stamps.  I explained (via cell phone) to the ticketing agent that the credit card did not match because the one used for the purchase had since expired.  Problem 1 eliminated immediately.  Thankfully, Yosy had his Israeli passport with him, with all its beautiful empty pages, and used that to  exit the US and then enter South Africa    

Now that we were entering Namibia a similiar problem arose.   If Yosy used his American passport, the preferred identity because Americans do not need a visa, he risked being denied entry because it lacked the 3 blank pages.  If he presented himself as an Israeli, a visa, which he did not have, was required.  Either way there was a very high risk that he would not be allowed to cross the border and would have to leave the trip and return to Cape Town, only three days into the 22-day journey.   And, that meant that I too, would have to forget about Namibia, which like Mali, was the main reason for coming here.

What to do?

Back in Cape Town, and immediately after our orientation meeting, I asked to speak privately to our trip leader, “MJ,” a Kenyan with 9 years of leading groups for the company.   “Yes,” he said.    The company had phoned him only the night before to advise  that Mark had been dismissed from the West Africa trip, but he was not told why.   I filled him in as best I could, and we both agreed that everyone is entitled to a second chance; that I would not tell the other travelers; and that we would keep a close eye on his interaction with the 3 young Norwegian girls.

Mark, in the meantime, didn’t even try to pitch his tent the first night out – it was clearly too difficult for him – but he refused all offers of help.    He asked MJ if he could sleep on the truck, as he had in West Africa.  While he was showering, and without his consent,  Yosy and I set up his tent.   Without acknowledging what we had done, he happily went to bed in his tent, and slept, he said, “like a lamb.”

Meanwhile, back at the Namib border, we decided to tell the truth – sort of.

We first gave Immigration the Israeli passport.    They noticed immediately that there was no visa and explained that none could be obtained there, at the border.   Yosy would have to return to Cape Town and request, and then wait for a Namibian entry visa from there.  We then whipped out the American passport, with its measly one blank page.   Miracle of miracles!   Without a bribe, within the blink of an eye, the passport was stamped and Yosy was in.  

Mark knows that I know about his booting in West Africa.   We've learned not to offer him help.   We just do whatever needs doing.   He pretends that he doesn’t notice us helping, and we pretend that we are not.   We’ve been taking turns pitching his tent and he has slept in it since leaving Cape Town almost a week ago.  So far, he’s been “nice but weird” and is keeping his distance from the Norwegians.

He told me that when he left the first group in Togo, he met up with some other travelers, and actually made his way to the Mali Meccas of Timbouctu, Djenne and the Dogon country, despite the warnings of tourist kidnappings and murder.  He seems to have fared far better than I, disabilities and all.  Unlike me, he completed his Leg 1, as he had planned, alone and relatively unscathed and in one piece.

No one else (except Yosy) knows about his personal debacle and humiliation in West Africa.   We’ll keep it a secret and hope for the best.