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.