My two months’ time in South Africa is nearly at an end. Before I continue along the road to Swaziland, I would like to share with you a few things I have learned about this country.
For the language enthusiast, South Africa boasts a panoply of official tongues – 11 to be exact. They are, in order of prominence: Zulu, Xhosa, Afrikaans, North Sotho, English, Tswana, South Sotho, Tsonga, Swati, Venda and Ndebele. The spoken vernacular changes from region to region, so it is simply not enough to speak 1 or 2 if you wish to communicate effectively with everyone. The result is that most South Africans speak 3 or 4, even outside the educated circles. The exception is the Whites, who often stick to Afrikaans or English only.
Dear White South Africans: you are the most racist bunch of punks I have ever met and you should all be ashamed of yourselves. Your paranoia of Blacks is transparent and pathetic and if you truly, truly cannot coexist with your darker-toned fellow countrymen then I suggest that you pack up your things and return to whatever European Superpower your imperialist, warmongering great-grandpappy came from. That is all.
Dear Black South Africans: on the whole, you are amongst the nicest people to have made my acquaintance. You’ve welcomed me into your shebeens, you’ve laughed supportively when I’ve struggled with your clicky languages, and you’ve picked me up on the side of the highway in your clunky cars. The calm, cool indifference with which you brush off the incessant snobbery of the Whites is inspiring, and it pleases me to witness you working diligently to uphold your values in a society that is making every effort to assimilate you into Western life. Oh, and as for the miniscule fraction of you who make a living preying on tourists: you guys are assholes.
The food in South Africa is quite unspectacular, which to the surprise of many of my readers has left me at a loss of words to describe it. Some noteworthy dishes include potjie (stew of root vegetables in coconut milk), bunny chow (hollowed out loaf of bread filled with curry), pap (cornmeal sludge, a staple in the townships) and biltong (seasoned jerked antelope meat). For the most part, South African food is a mishmash of flavours that have been tattooed on to the national palette by the various immigrant populations. However, the bulk of what’s cooking is the all-too-familiar Western fare such as meat pies, burgers and sausage rolls. The coffee served here isn’t fit for your poodle.
The landscape, meanwhile, is exceptional. South Africa has it all, from rocky beaches in the Cape to snow-capped mountains in the Drakensburg to desolate valleys in the Karoo. The topographical diversity makes this country a worthy destination for outdoorsy folks, who come here to surf, abseil, hike, climb and kloof, all the while being basked in the brilliant sun as it radiates lambently over the land.
Okay, it’s true: Johannesburg sucks. Once a cosmopolitan metropolis whose citizens were rich off fortunes of gold and diamonds, the city has declined into a crime-ravaged wasteland. Many businesses and their affluent clients have fled the city centre to the Northern suburbs, leaving a sea of derelict buildings and a state of near lawlessness in their wake. Hillbrow, a once-coveted neighbourhood in the downtown core, has become so dangerous that “even Black South Africans don’t go there.” I’m told that the place is run by drug barons from Nigeria and Zimbabwe. The real problem is that, even in the nicer areas, no Joburg resident is safe. Johannesburgians live in homes surrounded by barbed wire and policed by armed guards, though this does not constitute a guarantee of security – many people are robbed or murdered while sitting in their cars, waiting for their electronic gates to open. It comes as no surprise to me that Joburg is famous for being the most dangerous city outside of a war zone.
Wow, haven’t I really made this place sound irresistible? The truth is that South Africa has not captured my heart like Brazil and Iceland did. But do I recommend a visit here? Yes. South Africa is an ideal place for the uninitiated adventurer taking his/her first steps on this Dark Continent. Fly in to Cape Town, visit the wine country, make a few stops on the Garden Route, take a hike in Mpumalanga and finish off with a game drive in one of the National Parks, and you shall not be disappointed. But please – PLEASE, for the love of God, do not go to Johannesburg.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Saturday, August 25, 2007
The Longweekender
4 days, 6 people, 2 cars, and 2000km of African highway. This entry practically wrote itself.
“Forgetting” to do any work last Thursday afternoon, we left Pretoria early, knowing that the inherent delays of African travel would eventually kill our head start. The destination was Chobe National Park in Botswana, on the country’s Northern frontier with Namibia.
The first roadblock was hit at the border. The South African immigration official, bless his soul, decided that I had overstayed my welcome in the country and that I was subject to a fine. It seems that on his time scale, my 3 month tourist visa ended after only 7 weeks, and when I politely pointed out to the bugger that he was a mental midget, he spent the next 30 minutes flipping through my passport with that unapproving eye of a government officer looking to cause undue trouble for no apparent reason. Finally he gave in and I went.
The next roadblock was hit, quite literally, an hour later. Botswana is a Hoof and Mouth Disease hotzone, and so the government has erected a series of plastic gates along the highways to prevent cattle from crossing between farms. Phalalo, driving the Fiat Uno, hit a gate at 100km/hr, shearing the car wipers off and rendering the barrier useless. It was pitch black, and the man who was supposed to open the gate at the sight of vehicle headlights was talking on his cell phone. It was a minor accident and no one was hurt, though later we received a 300 Rand fine for driving a car with no wipers. Ha!
Because Botswana has no backpacker infrastructure, we spent the first night camping in a parking lot. Up at dawn the morning after, we continued along, me at the wheel of the Datsun, driving without a license, until a cop pulled us over and asked for my license. TO MY PARENTS, BEFORE YOU FLY HERE AND KILL ME: I WAS THE ONLY ONE REMOTELY ALERT ENOUGH TO DRIVE, HAVING NOT DRANK THE PREVIOUS NIGHT DUE TO AN ILLNESS, AND IT WAS IN THE INTEREST OF SAFETY. I spent 20 minutes making a huge scene about not being able to find my license (which incidentally is sitting in Edmonton), and the cop decided I was going to pay a 300 Pula ($50) fine. As I was pleading with her to let me off with a warning, a second cop came up to hand her an apple, which was dropped during the exchange. I picked it up, dusted it off and handed it to her. She looked at me with a raised eyebrow for a very long time, then smiled, finally telling us to beat it. Off we went, me in the back seat.
The drive through Botswana is spectacular. It’s winter now, so the landscape is barren and beautiful, with ochre and peach-toned grasses painted on calmly undulating hills that roll like waves, lapping gently at the mountains on the horizon. Tall, gangly Acacia trees line the highway, their branches looming out over the road, natural veneers offering momentary shade and protection to the road-wary motorist. On occasion a village will pop into view, its inhabitants moving in slow motion, women wrapped in traditional cloaks strolling about with sacks of oranges on their heads, their children and their goats in accompaniment. Brilliant.
Chobe National Park is an 11000 sq. km oasis of sandy grassland, home to 75000 elephant. There is no fence surrounding the property, so sightings of game like giraffe and warthog can be made even in the nearby towns. On our first afternoon we cruised down the river, gazing at buffalo and hippo, a feast for the eyes and for the ears, with more grunting than a Stallone film. Our Botswanan guide Willy expertly positioned the boat to allow us to watch a herd of elephant ford the river in single file, the smaller ones completely disappearing in the middle so that only a series of trunks could be seen, a network of periscopes extended towards the sky. At sunset, the sky burst into a conflagration of roses and all sat in silence as the day ended. All except Willy, who fidgeted restlessly – as an African, he had seen his fair share of Monet sunsets.
We followed up the cruise with a game drive at Chobe the next day. I won’t say much, since I’ve already discussed Kruger, though it’s worth noting that we watched triumph and tragedy unfold as a pack of lions stalked, chased, attacked and then devoured a sable antelope. My lasting memory of the spectacle will be a second sable, who had been walking with the victim in the minutes leading up to the slaughter, standing in remorseful silence not 10m from the kill, watching its friend get eaten. The lions, now satiated, paid it no attention. Having also got our fill of game, we moved on to Zimbabwe.
Zimbabwe… whoa. Now there is a messed up country. I hardly spent 2 days in the place, yet I could already write a novella’s worth of tales detailing the myriad tumultuous events that have left the nation in a state of crippled destitution. But I shall save my talk for later, since I intend to return in a few months to experience Zimbabwe in a greater capacity. For now, let’s keep it to Vic Falls.
Victoria Falls! Tourist hotspot of Africa and Wonder of the World! It is here where David Livingstone first stumbled upon the Zambezi River crashing 108m over a gorge that now divides Zimbabwe and Zambia. Of course, I’ll hazard that some native Africans knew of the falls long before the Scottish missionary arrived there – why is it that things aren’t “discovered” until some white guy lays eyes on it? At any rate, Vic Falls lives up to the hype. The 20USD park fee is a bit steep, but the views are legendary, and this being Africa you can walk right up to the cliff edge and look through your feet to the bottom, with no pesky fence obscuring your line of sight.
One more dazzling feature of Vic Falls is the town market. Make no mistake; it’s entirely for tourists, with artists selling everything from stone carvings of tribal icons to 5ft high wooden giraffes. I bought a big, beautiful teak carving of a hippopotamus. What the Hell am I going to do with a big, beautiful teak carving of a hippopotamus? What makes this market a gem, however, is not the wares but the currency. Forget the Zim Dollar – it is an unmitigated catastrophe and isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on. Rand and USD are accepted, though most sellers are more interested in practical items – old T-shirts or shoes or even your sunscreen. Walk into the market wearing a bunch of old clothes and you could get your Xmas shopping done in 20 minutes, though you may leave the market completely naked. One guy, trying to sell me a nyami-nyami (Zambezi stone necklace from the Ndebele tribe), offered to follow me to my hostel so I could give him my socks. The fact that they were dirty and had a hole didn’t seem to deter him.
The drive back to Pretoria was a pleasant one, back though Botswana since Zimbabwe has no fuel. We all had a good laugh when we passed the gate Phalalo had driven through – there were 3 guys fixing it, and upon examination of our motorcade, one of them yelled “That’s the Guy!!!” We made it back to Pretoria after a 16 hour drive, all shook hands for successfully having not killed each other, and went to bed.
“Forgetting” to do any work last Thursday afternoon, we left Pretoria early, knowing that the inherent delays of African travel would eventually kill our head start. The destination was Chobe National Park in Botswana, on the country’s Northern frontier with Namibia.
The first roadblock was hit at the border. The South African immigration official, bless his soul, decided that I had overstayed my welcome in the country and that I was subject to a fine. It seems that on his time scale, my 3 month tourist visa ended after only 7 weeks, and when I politely pointed out to the bugger that he was a mental midget, he spent the next 30 minutes flipping through my passport with that unapproving eye of a government officer looking to cause undue trouble for no apparent reason. Finally he gave in and I went.
The next roadblock was hit, quite literally, an hour later. Botswana is a Hoof and Mouth Disease hotzone, and so the government has erected a series of plastic gates along the highways to prevent cattle from crossing between farms. Phalalo, driving the Fiat Uno, hit a gate at 100km/hr, shearing the car wipers off and rendering the barrier useless. It was pitch black, and the man who was supposed to open the gate at the sight of vehicle headlights was talking on his cell phone. It was a minor accident and no one was hurt, though later we received a 300 Rand fine for driving a car with no wipers. Ha!
Because Botswana has no backpacker infrastructure, we spent the first night camping in a parking lot. Up at dawn the morning after, we continued along, me at the wheel of the Datsun, driving without a license, until a cop pulled us over and asked for my license. TO MY PARENTS, BEFORE YOU FLY HERE AND KILL ME: I WAS THE ONLY ONE REMOTELY ALERT ENOUGH TO DRIVE, HAVING NOT DRANK THE PREVIOUS NIGHT DUE TO AN ILLNESS, AND IT WAS IN THE INTEREST OF SAFETY. I spent 20 minutes making a huge scene about not being able to find my license (which incidentally is sitting in Edmonton), and the cop decided I was going to pay a 300 Pula ($50) fine. As I was pleading with her to let me off with a warning, a second cop came up to hand her an apple, which was dropped during the exchange. I picked it up, dusted it off and handed it to her. She looked at me with a raised eyebrow for a very long time, then smiled, finally telling us to beat it. Off we went, me in the back seat.
The drive through Botswana is spectacular. It’s winter now, so the landscape is barren and beautiful, with ochre and peach-toned grasses painted on calmly undulating hills that roll like waves, lapping gently at the mountains on the horizon. Tall, gangly Acacia trees line the highway, their branches looming out over the road, natural veneers offering momentary shade and protection to the road-wary motorist. On occasion a village will pop into view, its inhabitants moving in slow motion, women wrapped in traditional cloaks strolling about with sacks of oranges on their heads, their children and their goats in accompaniment. Brilliant.
Chobe National Park is an 11000 sq. km oasis of sandy grassland, home to 75000 elephant. There is no fence surrounding the property, so sightings of game like giraffe and warthog can be made even in the nearby towns. On our first afternoon we cruised down the river, gazing at buffalo and hippo, a feast for the eyes and for the ears, with more grunting than a Stallone film. Our Botswanan guide Willy expertly positioned the boat to allow us to watch a herd of elephant ford the river in single file, the smaller ones completely disappearing in the middle so that only a series of trunks could be seen, a network of periscopes extended towards the sky. At sunset, the sky burst into a conflagration of roses and all sat in silence as the day ended. All except Willy, who fidgeted restlessly – as an African, he had seen his fair share of Monet sunsets.
We followed up the cruise with a game drive at Chobe the next day. I won’t say much, since I’ve already discussed Kruger, though it’s worth noting that we watched triumph and tragedy unfold as a pack of lions stalked, chased, attacked and then devoured a sable antelope. My lasting memory of the spectacle will be a second sable, who had been walking with the victim in the minutes leading up to the slaughter, standing in remorseful silence not 10m from the kill, watching its friend get eaten. The lions, now satiated, paid it no attention. Having also got our fill of game, we moved on to Zimbabwe.
Zimbabwe… whoa. Now there is a messed up country. I hardly spent 2 days in the place, yet I could already write a novella’s worth of tales detailing the myriad tumultuous events that have left the nation in a state of crippled destitution. But I shall save my talk for later, since I intend to return in a few months to experience Zimbabwe in a greater capacity. For now, let’s keep it to Vic Falls.
Victoria Falls! Tourist hotspot of Africa and Wonder of the World! It is here where David Livingstone first stumbled upon the Zambezi River crashing 108m over a gorge that now divides Zimbabwe and Zambia. Of course, I’ll hazard that some native Africans knew of the falls long before the Scottish missionary arrived there – why is it that things aren’t “discovered” until some white guy lays eyes on it? At any rate, Vic Falls lives up to the hype. The 20USD park fee is a bit steep, but the views are legendary, and this being Africa you can walk right up to the cliff edge and look through your feet to the bottom, with no pesky fence obscuring your line of sight.
One more dazzling feature of Vic Falls is the town market. Make no mistake; it’s entirely for tourists, with artists selling everything from stone carvings of tribal icons to 5ft high wooden giraffes. I bought a big, beautiful teak carving of a hippopotamus. What the Hell am I going to do with a big, beautiful teak carving of a hippopotamus? What makes this market a gem, however, is not the wares but the currency. Forget the Zim Dollar – it is an unmitigated catastrophe and isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on. Rand and USD are accepted, though most sellers are more interested in practical items – old T-shirts or shoes or even your sunscreen. Walk into the market wearing a bunch of old clothes and you could get your Xmas shopping done in 20 minutes, though you may leave the market completely naked. One guy, trying to sell me a nyami-nyami (Zambezi stone necklace from the Ndebele tribe), offered to follow me to my hostel so I could give him my socks. The fact that they were dirty and had a hole didn’t seem to deter him.
The drive back to Pretoria was a pleasant one, back though Botswana since Zimbabwe has no fuel. We all had a good laugh when we passed the gate Phalalo had driven through – there were 3 guys fixing it, and upon examination of our motorcade, one of them yelled “That’s the Guy!!!” We made it back to Pretoria after a 16 hour drive, all shook hands for successfully having not killed each other, and went to bed.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Mike Hudson and the Deathly Haircut
On one fine, fine day in Plettenberg Bay a short time ago, my buddy Chris and I decided that we both wanted to get our hair cut. Being that the two of us sport a short-cropped #2 style, we figured a shave down at the local barber shop would come for cheaps.
Well, not so much. The first place quoted us 70 Rand ($10), which is extortion in South African terms. We stormed out of that establishment and on to the next one, only to be quoted the same price. It seems like South Africans enjoy getting ripped off when it comes to visiting the salon. So there we stood on a street corner, feeling slightly defeated and wondering what to do.
“Well Chris,” said I, “it appears we are relegated to spending R70 for the cut.”
“Not so,” replied he, “for I know of one last place which surely offers cheaper services.”
“And what is this place you speak of?” queried I.
“I speak of the local township.”
Townships are slums. They are massive, expansive, completely destitute housing establishments, 100% inhabited by local blacks, and have a reputation for being dangerous, AIDS-ridden, and off-limits to white people. They surround every major city and bleed utilities from the local grids, though in fact most of the township homes are little more than forts made of whatever bits of sheet metal were available at the garbage dump. Townships are very crowded – Johannesburg’s famous Soweto township has more than 3 million inhabitants.
So off we walked, out of Plett’s town centre and into the first township up the way, feeling a tad foolish about our decision to undertake this quest. As we strolled aimlessly through the litter-strewn streets, the black people stared incredulously, often ducking behind fences and bushes while keeping their gazes firmly locked on these two uncanny visitors. Strangely enough, it appeared as if they were afraid of us. At one point, we rounded a corner to find a large group of men sitting in a circle, laughing and yelling. Upon sight of us, they all jumped up and scattered in every direction. One of them lingered and politely asked us if there was anything he could help us with.
“Yes,” I replied. “You can direct us to the local shebeen.” A shebeen is a township bar, usually just someone selling beer in their back yard.
“Uh… sure,” he said after a pause. “So you guys aren’t cops?”
It seems that the group of them was taking part in some illegal gambling, and that they figured we had come to arrest them. Why else would two skinheaded white guys be lurking about?
A few minutes later we were leaning up against some guy’s fence, sucking back quarts of Carling beer, deep in conversation with the locals. They were pleased we had stopped by. We began to inquire about a barber, and one guy explained the situation:
“Oh, we have no barbers here, Brother. We all have our own clippers, so we cut our hair ourselves.”
“Ah! You have clippers! Well, would you mind giving us a shave?”
“No, but you see I am a little bit drunk right now.”
“Oh… well how about your friend,” said Chris, pointing to a second fellow, “can he do it, or has he been drinking too?”
“No, he has not been drinking.”
“Ah, excelle-“
“But he has smoked a lot of marijuana today.”
These guys sure knew how to party – it was only 11AM. But to make a long story short, we made a few more enquiries, and within 15 minutes I was sitting on the back of an overturned beer crate, a filthy towel draped over my neck, drinking a beer and having my head shaved by some guy who was philosophizing in Afrikaans. Chris got the same treatment and we hit the road, being safely escorted out of the township by some 20-year-old guy who claimed to be the local detective. And to think some tourists pay for township tours!
You probably all think I’m risking my scalp (literally) for doing this. Perhaps. The hostel owners in Plett scolded us for it, but being white South Africans, they are extremely racist. I refuse to believe that township people are dangerous just because they are black and poor. We took a risk and ended up meeting some nice people. Plus, we got the haircuts for the price of a few beers.
Well, not so much. The first place quoted us 70 Rand ($10), which is extortion in South African terms. We stormed out of that establishment and on to the next one, only to be quoted the same price. It seems like South Africans enjoy getting ripped off when it comes to visiting the salon. So there we stood on a street corner, feeling slightly defeated and wondering what to do.
“Well Chris,” said I, “it appears we are relegated to spending R70 for the cut.”
“Not so,” replied he, “for I know of one last place which surely offers cheaper services.”
“And what is this place you speak of?” queried I.
“I speak of the local township.”
Townships are slums. They are massive, expansive, completely destitute housing establishments, 100% inhabited by local blacks, and have a reputation for being dangerous, AIDS-ridden, and off-limits to white people. They surround every major city and bleed utilities from the local grids, though in fact most of the township homes are little more than forts made of whatever bits of sheet metal were available at the garbage dump. Townships are very crowded – Johannesburg’s famous Soweto township has more than 3 million inhabitants.
So off we walked, out of Plett’s town centre and into the first township up the way, feeling a tad foolish about our decision to undertake this quest. As we strolled aimlessly through the litter-strewn streets, the black people stared incredulously, often ducking behind fences and bushes while keeping their gazes firmly locked on these two uncanny visitors. Strangely enough, it appeared as if they were afraid of us. At one point, we rounded a corner to find a large group of men sitting in a circle, laughing and yelling. Upon sight of us, they all jumped up and scattered in every direction. One of them lingered and politely asked us if there was anything he could help us with.
“Yes,” I replied. “You can direct us to the local shebeen.” A shebeen is a township bar, usually just someone selling beer in their back yard.
“Uh… sure,” he said after a pause. “So you guys aren’t cops?”
It seems that the group of them was taking part in some illegal gambling, and that they figured we had come to arrest them. Why else would two skinheaded white guys be lurking about?
A few minutes later we were leaning up against some guy’s fence, sucking back quarts of Carling beer, deep in conversation with the locals. They were pleased we had stopped by. We began to inquire about a barber, and one guy explained the situation:
“Oh, we have no barbers here, Brother. We all have our own clippers, so we cut our hair ourselves.”
“Ah! You have clippers! Well, would you mind giving us a shave?”
“No, but you see I am a little bit drunk right now.”
“Oh… well how about your friend,” said Chris, pointing to a second fellow, “can he do it, or has he been drinking too?”
“No, he has not been drinking.”
“Ah, excelle-“
“But he has smoked a lot of marijuana today.”
These guys sure knew how to party – it was only 11AM. But to make a long story short, we made a few more enquiries, and within 15 minutes I was sitting on the back of an overturned beer crate, a filthy towel draped over my neck, drinking a beer and having my head shaved by some guy who was philosophizing in Afrikaans. Chris got the same treatment and we hit the road, being safely escorted out of the township by some 20-year-old guy who claimed to be the local detective. And to think some tourists pay for township tours!
You probably all think I’m risking my scalp (literally) for doing this. Perhaps. The hostel owners in Plett scolded us for it, but being white South Africans, they are extremely racist. I refuse to believe that township people are dangerous just because they are black and poor. We took a risk and ended up meeting some nice people. Plus, we got the haircuts for the price of a few beers.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
On Safari
Would any journey through Africa be worth its salt if it did not include a safari or two? Paul Theroux thinks so: "That was what visitors did, flying into the international airport that had been built for their convenience, near the animals. But the real country had no connection with that." I disagree. A trip through the African bush is a step into the realm of the Discovery Channel, a glance through a window into the past when the animals roamed free, removed from the fear of being shot or having their habitat consumed by human interests. I say that, if you're here, you might as well go.
My friends concurred, so this past weekend we headed to Kruger Park, 5 of us stuffed into a 1980 Datsun Stanza, in hopes of spotting some strange and wonderful beasts. The Park was the brain child of Paul Kruger, who opened a reserve to the public in 1927. At its inception, Kruger Park was modest in size, though to date it has grown as large as Israel, and is the most highly traveled-to safari destination on the planet.
A strange reality about Africa is that it seems to continually draw the short straw when it comes to just about everything. Raped by imperialists, ravished by famine, plagued by AIDS and beleaguered by poverty... one must wonder just where exactly the bright side of Africa is hiding. Take a safari, and you will see the light: when it comes to having the coolest animals, Africa is the gold medal winner.
Safaris, when portrayed in movies, seem pleasant and straightforward. You put on a funny hat, jump into a Land Rover and spend the day watching prides of lions prance around majestically in front of you. Right? Hmm. In real life, it isn't that simple; fact is, most of the animals are very wary of humans, and therefore elect to spend their time avoiding the roads. Time of day is also a factor, inasmuch as most of the more interesting predators are nocturnal. The only thing you'll catch a leopard doing at 2PM is rolling over in its sleep. As a result, safaris require a lot of diligent concentration and patience. Roads must be navigated slowly, with all eyes fixated outward into the bowels of the underbrush, searching for signs of movement. On occasion, you may be fortunate enough to round a corner and catch a nyala crossing the gravel tracks, but for the most part you must rely on your ability to detect something much less obvious. There are a few tricks you can play to up your chances, however. Finding watering holes is one, since animals tend to congregate there during dry seasons. A more cheesy way is to latch on to one of the big lumbering safari vans, which are operated by guides trained in the art of spotting the good stuff. Every so often then vans will slam on their brakes, and an arsenal of 60000mm zoom lenses will extend out the side, each one attached to the flubbery arm of some mammoth sized German tourist. Follow the line of sight of the cameras, and you'll see whatever is out there lurking.
A quick list of our more satisfying finds: elephant - TONS OF ELEPHANT!!! - white rhino, buffalo, hippo, cheetah, baboons, vervet monkey, crocodile and of course the prerequisite 10,000 impala. The impala are known as the McDonalds of Kruger, since they come with black stripes shaped like an 'M' on their asses, and just about every other animal eats them. We unfortunately missed seeing a lion or leopard, which together with the rhino, elephant and buffalo make up Africa's "Big 5". But that's alright. A few days from now we'll get a second chance during a visit to Chobe National Park in Botswana.
My last $0.02 regarding safaris? They are definitely touristy, even a bit kitsch, and are certainly geared towards the lazy traveling set. If you fly all the way here just to visit Kruger and then return home, having made little effort to soak up any real African culture, waxing poetic all the while about how you've "done Africa", then Theroux's got you pinned: you're lame. But for a country like South Africa, generally immersed in problems, seeing a well-managed reserve such as Kruger is a breath of fresh air. The animals are flourishing - a far cry from the days when tourists used to flock here to shoot them.
To close, your cool fact of the day: safari is the Swahili word for journey.
My friends concurred, so this past weekend we headed to Kruger Park, 5 of us stuffed into a 1980 Datsun Stanza, in hopes of spotting some strange and wonderful beasts. The Park was the brain child of Paul Kruger, who opened a reserve to the public in 1927. At its inception, Kruger Park was modest in size, though to date it has grown as large as Israel, and is the most highly traveled-to safari destination on the planet.
A strange reality about Africa is that it seems to continually draw the short straw when it comes to just about everything. Raped by imperialists, ravished by famine, plagued by AIDS and beleaguered by poverty... one must wonder just where exactly the bright side of Africa is hiding. Take a safari, and you will see the light: when it comes to having the coolest animals, Africa is the gold medal winner.
Safaris, when portrayed in movies, seem pleasant and straightforward. You put on a funny hat, jump into a Land Rover and spend the day watching prides of lions prance around majestically in front of you. Right? Hmm. In real life, it isn't that simple; fact is, most of the animals are very wary of humans, and therefore elect to spend their time avoiding the roads. Time of day is also a factor, inasmuch as most of the more interesting predators are nocturnal. The only thing you'll catch a leopard doing at 2PM is rolling over in its sleep. As a result, safaris require a lot of diligent concentration and patience. Roads must be navigated slowly, with all eyes fixated outward into the bowels of the underbrush, searching for signs of movement. On occasion, you may be fortunate enough to round a corner and catch a nyala crossing the gravel tracks, but for the most part you must rely on your ability to detect something much less obvious. There are a few tricks you can play to up your chances, however. Finding watering holes is one, since animals tend to congregate there during dry seasons. A more cheesy way is to latch on to one of the big lumbering safari vans, which are operated by guides trained in the art of spotting the good stuff. Every so often then vans will slam on their brakes, and an arsenal of 60000mm zoom lenses will extend out the side, each one attached to the flubbery arm of some mammoth sized German tourist. Follow the line of sight of the cameras, and you'll see whatever is out there lurking.
A quick list of our more satisfying finds: elephant - TONS OF ELEPHANT!!! - white rhino, buffalo, hippo, cheetah, baboons, vervet monkey, crocodile and of course the prerequisite 10,000 impala. The impala are known as the McDonalds of Kruger, since they come with black stripes shaped like an 'M' on their asses, and just about every other animal eats them. We unfortunately missed seeing a lion or leopard, which together with the rhino, elephant and buffalo make up Africa's "Big 5". But that's alright. A few days from now we'll get a second chance during a visit to Chobe National Park in Botswana.
My last $0.02 regarding safaris? They are definitely touristy, even a bit kitsch, and are certainly geared towards the lazy traveling set. If you fly all the way here just to visit Kruger and then return home, having made little effort to soak up any real African culture, waxing poetic all the while about how you've "done Africa", then Theroux's got you pinned: you're lame. But for a country like South Africa, generally immersed in problems, seeing a well-managed reserve such as Kruger is a breath of fresh air. The animals are flourishing - a far cry from the days when tourists used to flock here to shoot them.
To close, your cool fact of the day: safari is the Swahili word for journey.
Thursday, August 9, 2007
Klip Kop
And the wildebeest said to me "Please do not come any closer, for under this tree I wait for a mate, and I wish not to be disturbed."
So I replied "Don't fear, for once I capture this moment, I shall move further down the valley floor in search of other faces."
This is the Klipkop Wildlife Reserve, a 2000 hectare area of privately owned blankenveld in South Africa's Gauteng province. For the next month, it will be my place of work. And my home. And where I hang out with zebras. Together with 6 other volunteers, I will be part of a conservation program that aims to protect both the fragile vegetation and the animals on the reserve. My boss is Phalalo Phalalo, a 27-year-old Botswanan naturalist who speaks 9 languages and has a commendable propensity for dropping the F-bomb.
Conservation has many facets, and the level of responsibility for running even such a small reserve is high. Soil must be analyzed for nutrient content, fences checked routinely for holes and burrows, and invader plants killed. There is fire prevention, water testing and poaching control. The game itself must be managed: animals must be counted, sexed (get your head out of the gutter, that means determining the sex), supplementary fed and, occasionally, culled. Most of these tasks are performed by the volunteers, since the reserve receives no government funding and a full-time staff is cost-prohibitive. The job diversity is pleasing. One day we could be building a concrete bridge to allow the Land Rovers better access to the watering holes. The next, we could be driving to the local cow slaughterhouse, picking up donated carcasses to feed to the resident hyena population.
Ever look up from your work and discover that a family of giraffe is watching you? Animal interaction is by far the most enjoyable element of Klipkop. We have kudu, eland, springbok, hartebeest, duiker, wildebeest, zebra, gemsbok, impala and a whole wack of other antelope you've never heard of. Look into the sky, and through the blazing veil of the African sun you will spot birds such as vulture and hornbill. Peer below your feet and you will witness the frantic scurrying of dassie and mongoose. At this point you may be wondering if Klipkop is home to anything slightly more intriguing: lion or hippo perhaps. Nope. Aside from the nocturnal hyena, the place is free of predators. This is a good thing - put one leopard in the park and you'd need a guard with a shot gun escorting the volunteers around at all times.
The animals are certainly not confined to the outdoors, either. The farmhouse I sleep in is home to 7 dogs and 4 cats, all of whom were rescued from less fortunate past lives. It makes for quite a motley crew: one of the dogs is 19 and suffers from incontinence. Another lost its lower jaw to cancer and thus walks around with its tongue permanently extended. A third dog has no rear left leg - an injury suffered when a zebra kicked it. This latter dog is Phalalo's favourite: "Thees ees my dog. Don't fuck eet up!"
I love this place. I spend all day outside. I drive around in rusted out jalopies older than me. I'm constantly filthy. My work/life/existence is like a combination of African safari, summer camp and reality show. And when I get home at the end of the day, I drink beers that cost me 65 cents.
Zebras and cheap beer. Throw in some extremely friendly people and a couple of corrupt governments, and you're well on your way to having Africa in a nutshell.
Saturday, August 4, 2007
Go!
Some Guy once remarked that getting there is half the fun. That Guy was absolutely right. And so I present to you the unofficial guide to the various ways to travel around South Africa.
THE BAZ BUS
The hop-on-hop-off, no-brainer method of transport. Buy one ticket and the Baz will drop you in virtually any little town between Cape Town and the Elephant Coast, with door-to-door service. It's safe, efficient and simple and is a great way to meet other travelers. So, knowing as you all do by now that I am an arrogant snob, it should come as no surprise that I avoid the Baz like the plague.
THE REGULAR BUS
An excellent option if you are deviating from the Baz's religiously coastal territory, and much cheaper. Still too expensive for the general public (read: black people).
MINIBUS TAXIS
Lekker, Brother! I've raved about these in a previous post and I still maintain that this is the most 'African' way to travel over both short and long distances. Dirt cheap, full of characters and willing to stop in even the seediest township (slum), these babies leave when they're full and arrive when they Damn well feel like! It goes without saying then that you shouldn't use the minibus if you are (1) in a hurry and (2) not aware that the ride may in fact cost you everything you own.
CAR RENTAL
Go for it, man! Oh by the way, don't leave the car anywhere because it's going to get stolen.
HITCH HIKING
The official story is that no one here in their right mind would willingly pull to the side of the road here - incidents of carjacking are simply too common. However, if you are an unassuming SWM with a backpack then you may be in luck, because there are a number of very nice people here who will gladly take you on board for an hour or two for the price of a Diet Coke. Most of the time you aren't alone, anyway. The pickup truck that drove me from Buffalo Bay to Knysna had 18 Africans in the back.
TRAIN
Wouldn't do it if I was you. Train travel is considered safe if and only if (a) you are not near a major urban center and (b) you are sitting in the 1st class cabin and (c) there is an armed guard on board. Sounds odd, but trains often serve as the only link between the townships of many cities and the cities themselves. This means that the clientele is almost 100% impoverished Africans, and that you, silly white boy with the Ipod, are hopelessly outnumbered. I rode the train for an hour between Stellenbosch and Cape Town and the experience was something out of Boyz in da Hood. Only funny if you live.
And there you have it. Of course there are other ways to make tracks in this country (fly, walk, taxi) but they aren't much different than back home and therefore warrant no discussion. Although, I must say that, unlike in Edmonton, the cabbies here don't smell bad and even seem to know where they are going.
THE BAZ BUS
The hop-on-hop-off, no-brainer method of transport. Buy one ticket and the Baz will drop you in virtually any little town between Cape Town and the Elephant Coast, with door-to-door service. It's safe, efficient and simple and is a great way to meet other travelers. So, knowing as you all do by now that I am an arrogant snob, it should come as no surprise that I avoid the Baz like the plague.
THE REGULAR BUS
An excellent option if you are deviating from the Baz's religiously coastal territory, and much cheaper. Still too expensive for the general public (read: black people).
MINIBUS TAXIS
Lekker, Brother! I've raved about these in a previous post and I still maintain that this is the most 'African' way to travel over both short and long distances. Dirt cheap, full of characters and willing to stop in even the seediest township (slum), these babies leave when they're full and arrive when they Damn well feel like! It goes without saying then that you shouldn't use the minibus if you are (1) in a hurry and (2) not aware that the ride may in fact cost you everything you own.
CAR RENTAL
Go for it, man! Oh by the way, don't leave the car anywhere because it's going to get stolen.
HITCH HIKING
The official story is that no one here in their right mind would willingly pull to the side of the road here - incidents of carjacking are simply too common. However, if you are an unassuming SWM with a backpack then you may be in luck, because there are a number of very nice people here who will gladly take you on board for an hour or two for the price of a Diet Coke. Most of the time you aren't alone, anyway. The pickup truck that drove me from Buffalo Bay to Knysna had 18 Africans in the back.
TRAIN
Wouldn't do it if I was you. Train travel is considered safe if and only if (a) you are not near a major urban center and (b) you are sitting in the 1st class cabin and (c) there is an armed guard on board. Sounds odd, but trains often serve as the only link between the townships of many cities and the cities themselves. This means that the clientele is almost 100% impoverished Africans, and that you, silly white boy with the Ipod, are hopelessly outnumbered. I rode the train for an hour between Stellenbosch and Cape Town and the experience was something out of Boyz in da Hood. Only funny if you live.
And there you have it. Of course there are other ways to make tracks in this country (fly, walk, taxi) but they aren't much different than back home and therefore warrant no discussion. Although, I must say that, unlike in Edmonton, the cabbies here don't smell bad and even seem to know where they are going.
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