Excursions

Robben Island

Posted on by Laughingnomad

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June 16 to July 13, 2002
Standing bunched shoulder-to-shoulder in the small anteroom of the prison on Robben Island where Mandela and others were political prisoners, our half of the ferry load of visitors impatiently waited. Well, for Pete’s sake, I thought to myself…what a disorganized outfit…should have had someone to meet us here by now…and then finally….a tall large-bellied black African burst into the room from a side entrance, squeezed his way to the front of the group and quickly apologized for keeping us waiting. Come, he said, lets go see the prison rooms now.

On our way out to the exercise yard our guide stopped at the foot of a staircase. “I was imprisoned here for 9 years for the trumped up charge of sabotage, he said, and this is where all the orders came from,” he said as he looked to the top of the stairs at the door behind which pain and torture, psychological and physical, were incarnated. “All letters in and out of the prison were intercepted here…my father never received my letters…they led him to believe that I was dead…he only found out I was alive the day I arrived home from the prison all these years later,” he said. Here the decision was made to separate the political prisoners from the general population. The most feared political activists and the most watched, like Nelson Mandela, were kept in “B” section. The rest were put in other sections…

Out in the yard our ex-prisoner guide talked about the lack of medical care. “The doctor would put his stethoscope to my heart and all the time his ear pieces would still be hanging around his neck. Later, when I became very sick I was finally diagnosed with severe diabetes. I was assigned to work in the kitchen. That was how we communicated with Mandela and the others…messages were passed on with the food.” He showed us the spot where Mandela buried the original of his memoirs after they had been transcribed on tiny pieces of paper and smuggled out of the prison. Then we entered a door off the exercise yard, walked down a narrow hall and took turns looking in through an iron bar window into Mandela’s cell that was only a space of about 8 feet by 8 feet.

When it was discovered that he had been collaborating with the other prisoners, Mandela was moved to another prison in Cape Town and kept in isolation. It was from there that, as the recognized head of the African National Congress (ANC), he was able to get messages out asking for negotiations between the ANC and the South African government to end apartheid. When international pressure mounted and the internal violence continued, and it became apparent that apartheid was on it’s way out, Mandela was finally released in 1993-27 long years after his incarceration. Within a year he was elected President of South Africa.

Many of the former guards are still working on the island that has now become a national museum and there are about 15 former political prisoners who are volunteering daily to lead public tours. When someone asked how it felt to be around his former captors, our guide told us about his reconciliation with one of the most cruel guards who came to him and asked for forgiveness.  “It is very very difficult for all of us…all these many years later we are told that it is good to come here and confront the truth of what happened to us.” he told us that the reason he was late meeting the tour group was because another former guard and his wife were in the group just prior to ours. “When they departed, he said, I couldn’t stop myself from breaking down and crying…and as it all came back to me I just couldn’t stop for awhile…”

Robben Island was used at various times between the 17th and 20th centuries as a prison, a hospital for socially unacceptable groups and a military base. Its buildings, particularly those of the late 20th century such as the maximum security prison for political prisoners, witness the triumph of democracy and freedom over oppression and racism. It is a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

Citrusdal and The Baths

Posted on by Laughingnomad

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June 14, 2002 My birthday
The Baths is a health spa about 16 km from Citrusdal in a pretty wooded gorge. It is a long weekend in South Africa; Monday is Youth Day-(SA has 13 public holidays) so Rod’s wife Brenda drives up from Cape Town. Bob and I, Sarah and Adrian and Heather and Fi upgrade to a chalet-$6 each and it’s wonderful to sleep in a bed.

Around the camp fire that night James and George teach me how to say “cool banana” in Swahili: Poe Matoke!

There is a cold swimming pool and another swimming pool fed by the hot springs so we sit in the soothing warm water a while before going to bed.

The next morning at breakfast Bob shows me a note he has written: “Happy Birthday,” which takes me by surprise as I had forgotten what day it was.

Then the truck takes us into Citrusdal where we experience a wine tasting of South African wines, including one made of Rooibos Tea which tastes like medicine. There is a nice break in the weather and we have lunch out on the front porch; the food is wonderful and half of us order a second entre which startles the woman restaurant owner!

That evening back at camp Bob appears with a cake and one candle and Nikki gives me Apricot jam and a piece of handmade soap made of goat’s milk and Ylang Ylang that we can use in our apartment in Cape Town. Think she must have seen me eyeing these things in the little wine shop…I am very touched by everyone’s good wishes!

Then everyone walks up to the Baths again. Just as Bob and I were getting into our tent, though, Rod drives up and tells us there has just been a cancellation in one of the suites in the hotel…so off we go to yet another night in a real bed on my birthday! Turned out to be a really good thing though because Bob was up about 10 times that night with diarrhea.

The Dunes & Sarus Guest Farm

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June 10, 2002
After a night camping near Sesriam, everyone else is up at 5:00 to go hiking in the Dunes. No coffee and no “breaky” (breakfast). These are the largest Dunes in the world Rod says. I stay in camp by myself and the silence is heaven! The truck returns at noon and we are out of there.

The garbage collectors come around while I sit on a park bench trying to catch up on my journal with my computer. One fellow comes over to look at the computer screen and asks what I am doing. I tell him I am telling my friends back home about Africa. He suddenly leans down closer and looks intently at my screen. Then he wants to know how much the computer cost. He just shook his head and said “very expensive, very expensive” as he walked away leaving me to feel the incredibly deep gulf that was just created between us.

In Swakopmund Rod bought a dark brown sheepskin at a game skin shop which he is wearing around his shoulders. I tell this large man he looks especially intriguing with his stocking cap, dark glasses and bare feet!

The Sarus camp site has a little communal building with kitchen sink and wood stove. Expecting a cold night most of the campers sleep on the floor in the building. Bob and I run Rod out of the “caravan” (little trailer). I note that we call “caravans” trailers and Rod notes that we have gone from “Truck Trash” to “Trailer Trash!” That’s about it, I laughed!

In the evening after dinner Fi and Sarah read my Malawi story on the computer and, laughing, we remember some of the funnier moments of the trip.

Otjiwarongo Cheetah Camp

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June 5, 2002
The next morning James drives us back to Outjo, the small predominantly German/Afrikaner town we had stayed in before and we buy apple strudel and real drip coffee in the bakery and scarf it up during a 10 minute email check on one of the two terminals. Then on to the Cheetah Camp for lunch and tent set-up.

The camp is owned and operated by an Afrikaner farm family who is trying to conserve some of the only 2000 Cheetahs left in Namibia. We all pile into the back of Mario’s pick-up and he drives us to the homestead a couple miles away. As we walk through the gates we see four Cheetahs pacing back and forth across the lawn. We are led around to the back of the house with Cheetah’s dashing unexpectedly back and forth-sometimes brushing our legs-one dashed at me and clamped his teeth softly around my ankle-releasing a flood of adrenalin!

Bob whispers in my ear that we are probably going to get hit up for a donation while Mario and his dad pet the Cheetahs. He approaches us one-by-one and asks if anyone wants to come pose with a Cheetah for a picture. A few have their picture taken.

Then Mario disappears and the Cheetahs start pacing expectantly. Bob says there is going to be a surprise…and sure enough Mario comes back with a bucket full of meat chunks which he throws to the Cheetahs to catch with their powerful jaws in mid-air. All this time some of us notice sheep and goats bleating nervously in the field outside the yard…then after a few hat and stick throwing and catching we are taken in the back of the pick-up again to some large fenced areas near the camp area and watch as Mario throws large pieces of meat to the wild Cheetahs.

At the end of the demonstration Mario disappears and returns with a baby Cheetah that is less than a week old-the oooohhhs and aaaaahhhhhs go up-especially when he nuzzles it with his chin…but…but…questions will be answered in the bar in ten minutes he says.

Then we get a fairly passionate pitch from the young good looking ex rugby player: Cheetahs are recognized as an endangered species everywhere except in Namibia and the farmers are killing them off to keep them out of their livestock. The problem is, he says, that Namibia has passed some laws that prevent Cheetahs from being trapped and sold to parks and game reserves-instead the laws require that any trapped Cheetah has to be neutered. It’s bullshit, he repeats angrily over and over.

So Mario and his family are running an illegal operation…this is Africa he says when questioned…as long as you are careful you can play the game…Mario and his family believes that by working for years with Cheetahs they have learned some game management techniques that the so-called authorities do not learn from “the books” one of which is that Cheetahs will breed in captivity if they are happy. But what is “captivity” he asks…even the Etosha National Park is fenced he says…

At the end he asks for donations in return for being on a email list…his goal he says is reaching the outside world and the media. I think of two things that would be good for him to do. Form a non-profit organization so that he is above reproach as far as money is concerned and so that donations can be tax deductible. Also no reputable media association is going to be able make his case for him until someone with credentials-not associated with the environmental groups that he thinks are in cahoots with the political entities of the country-comes in and studies his game management. Bob looks at me and says what he needs is a good grant writer…I ask him if he wants to live in Namibia but he doesn’t reply. In the end I give Mario US $5 to help pay for the donkey meat he feeds the game because I want to be on his mail list-and I want the recipes for the homemade Afrikaner squash boats, curried cabbage and pickled beets that is served with the spit lamb after the talk.

Mario will stay up as long as he can sell the rest of the campers shots of everything alcoholic on his shelf…we hear laughing and talking coming from the partiers in the bar until early morning! The next day on the road Heather is sick again…

Meeting Mario and his family gives us our first contact with rural Afrikaner farm culture. Working the land makes you very down to earth and practical anyway. However, Mario had an independent attitude that reminded me of my dad. When he sold the ranch in southern Oregon and bought a small acreage near Salem to be near his only grandchildren, I told him that since he no longer had a Caterpiller cat to dig his own garbage hole, that he would have to take his garbage to the local landfill. But he came back with the first load he took! “They wanted me to pay to dump my garbage” he said disgustedly. “The hell with them!” So after that Bob and I had to take my parents’ garbage to the landfill for them.

We head south and then west across Namibia. The topography is flat desert with dunes. The closer we get to the coast the colder it gets until we see the crummy weather up ahead hovering the shore. Even though the Kumuka Truck left camp at 5am we pass it parked at the side of the road having lunch in the harsh wind. We honk as we pass and exchange The Finger. The kids all laugh.

Then finally the arrow-straight road on the flat African pan that we have been on for the last five hours ends flat out at a right angle with the beach!

Okavango Delta By Makoro

Posted on by Laughingnomad

The Makoro Trip through the Delta
By the time the 1300 km long Okavango, southern Africa’s third largest river, enters Botswana from Angola, through the Caprivi Strip in Namibia, it begins to spread and sprawl as it is absorbed by the air and Kalahari sands and disappears in a maze of lagoons, channels and islands covering 15,000 square km-the size of Massechusetts.

We walk through black primal muck in bare feet for several yards and very very carefully climb into the canoes or Mekoros, shallow-draft dugouts that are hewn from ebony or sausage-tree logs. Two passengers sit low or lie in the canoe with baggage between their knees and a poler (ours was a barefoot 16 year old with tiny dreads) stands in the stern with a ngashi-a pole made from the Magonano tree. The poler negotiates the labyrinthine waterways on the two-hour ride through the reeds and yellow and blue lilies of the shallow Delta to our camp on a Delta island. The sound of the poling is rythmic-the ride quiet
and restful.

After setting up the tents Bob and the rest of the group went on the two hour sundown walk to sight animals. You are not going, the guides ask me. I say, no I am going to stay here and be quiet. They all smile knowingly-this they understand. I stay in camp, lean up against a downed dead tree and meditate myself into Bliss. When the trekkers return we have dinner. The polers sit with us-their daily rations are 500 g of mielie meal, 250g of white sugar, six tea bags and salt and powdered milk. But when we have all dished up Rod offers them each a portion of what is left of our dinner. I sleep out under the stars that night with Rod and the polers and some of the others-Bob in the tent.

AIDS & The Ocavango Delta

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Wed May 29-30 , 2002
Can’t stop in Maun to check email because nothing opens until 10am. Gary takes us into the Delta on his Safari wagon with two long seats back to back down the middle of the truck bed.

As we drive through town he stops by the cemetery on the outskirts of the town to explain all the new graves covered in green awnings to keep the evil spirits away; 37% of the people in Botswana has the HIV Virus. The epidemic is exacerbated by the local belief system that you get AIDS from condoms…that the way to cleanse yourself from the disease is to sleep with a virgin-so there are a lot of rapes. Many of the locals, according to a South African newspaper think AIDS stands for something like “Americans Interfering…” I can’t find the exact quote now.

Thousands of graves-row upon rows-are all covered with new blue awnings “to keep away the evil spirits.” They won’t win this one Gary says. Don’t fraternize with the locals he warns as he gets back in the truck.

Later we read an article in the Botswana Guardian reporting on a recent AIDS Awareness campaign that said that superstitious beliefs are being blamed for a rise in ritual murders, trafficking in human body parts to obtain substances for potions they believe will strengthen them against misfortune, and false AIDS cures. Human sacrifice is needed, many Africans believe, for the purpose of obtaining a victim’s life force through a potion. The article went on to say that the Traditional Healers Association of South Africa has condemned healers who tell their patients suffering from AIDS that the disease can be cured through sex with a virgin.

In Mozambique, health officials are cataloguing traditional medical practices with anthropologists from the Maputo campus of the University of Mozambique with the aim of separating out good information from bad and legislating against promoting harmful practices, according to Dr. Manuel Ferriera. “You can’t use reason against superstition,” Musa Khumalo, a ministry official said. “Sometimes you just have to legislate against it.”

The Safari truck takes two hours and 11 minutes (Bob says) through Maun, down a side road to a dirt road that takes us through Mapani trees and thorn bushes that whip the truck and threaten us, and across the Buffalo fence to the edge of the Delta where the Mekuros and the polers are waiting for us.

On the way we stop twice to give Heather time to hang her head over the side (ethanol…alcohol…poisoning from the night before, Bob says) while Gary tells us about the local people. They make their mud huts out of Termite Mound mud because the saliva from the termites that is in the mud, when mixed with water, makes a kind of very hard cement-like mud. Even though the mounds stand peak-shaped anywhere from four to 15 feet above ground, 90% of the rest of the mound is underground and it is this soil that the people dig out for their huts.

Gary says he is the local bus system for the people in the mud hut villages along the way. When he comes through they ask to catch a ride on the way back to Maun…then they catch a ride with him on his next trip into the Delta in 2-3 days. They shop mainly for sugar, flour, tea, pop (sudsa) and meat, he says. Well, at least it keeps the brain functioning if not the rest of the body.

At the Buffalo Fence a woman appears who opens the gate and counts us to make sure the same number of people that go in come out again.

Victoria Falls & Rafting The Zambezi In Zambia

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Sun May 25, 2002
Up at 5:30 for the sunrise micro-light (motorcycle with wings) ride to view the falls and the geologic formation left by them over thousands of years. The half hour ride is breathtaking…the falls have cut their way back in a zig-zag fashion four or five times.
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A short way down the river is the bridge where people can scare themselves silly with bungee jumping; there are a variety of other activities that the tour companies can soak you for…Bob and I choose an all-day raft trip down the Zambezi River.

Zambezi Raft Trip
Normally the rafts put in at the bridge by the Falls that crosses the Zambezi River into Zimbabwe. The water is low this time of the year so our lean and experienced black African river guides had to drive us to a put-in point down the river. One guide, who will accompany us in a kayak says he has competed in kayaking events all over the world.

The mile walk straight down a 45 degree angle branch ladder to the water nearly killed me; had to turn around and go down backward the last third of the way. Bob had gone on ahead of me-the bastard I think to myself-and a long-haired guy from Hong Kong lets me balance on his shoulder the last 100 yards…am so grateful to him…you did it yourself he says…I just helped a little bit he said graciously…bless his heart. If I had known the walk down was like this I would never have gone rafting! Then had to walk around one rapid and Bob almost fell into some gooky ooze crawling over the rocks.

However back in the river, the rafts were small, we all paddled as we hit a few good rapids and had a good time. One boat flipped with a load of tourists from the Zimbabwe side. Up bobbed my Hong Kong friend that the kayak couldn’t reach and I nearly unhinged his wrist pulling him into our boat…use the collar of the life vest next time the river guide says to me. I tell my friend from Hong Kong that now we are even-we have saved each other-and we giggle.

The route back up to the top of the gorge was nearly as bad a killer as the route down. I was the straggler…even with the climber’s breathing technique…the river guide following me to make sure I didn’t croak..guzzled a Fanta at the top in near desperation and groaned when I heard that the Lorelle and the others who took the power boat trip were lifted out by helicopter!

Buffalo Steak Dinner
That night we drove into Livingstone town about 15 minutes away and ate a buffalo steak dinner at a pub that is owned by one of the safari tour leaders. On the way we stop at a pharmacy so Lorelle can get some “mozi” repellant and Bob bought a skin drum for $3 from one of the young guys selling things at the side of the truck while we wait. Funny how this selling goes-he didn’t want a drum but every time he said no the guy would come down and then finally Bob figured what the heck…now we have to send it home.

Malawi Village Walk

Posted on by Laughingnomad

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Sun May 19th 2002 Village Walk
Africa does not really exist. Africa is a geographical name for a continent. Africa is made up of countries but people, especially in rural areas, don�t especially identify with the country they are in-most of which have artificial borders created during colonialism.

People do identify with their social groups. Each social group has its own language, distinct culture and system of beliefs and customs including all it�s taboos. The family is large and time spent communally together is highly valued-in fact it is how they survive. Families who have ancestors in common are called clans. At the head of the clan stands the chief who is chosen by a council of elders. Several clans together is what the western world calls a tribe and at it�s head stands the king. A �tribe� can number in the millions-bigger than many western countries. There is no such thing as Africa.

One morning the son of the Chief of the Tonga group (the use of the word tribe is not pc) from a nearby village takes us on a walk to his village for 100 Kwatcha each (about 25 cents). On the way down a dirt path we are taken to his house first. It is very small-about four rooms and we have to duck to go through the doors. The rooms are incredibly bare.

The Chief�s son whose name I didn�t write down, encouraged us to take pictures and showed us two large frames hanging on the walls with collaged pictures of tourists who had visited the village in the past. All he asked of us was to send him copies of the pictures we took of the villagers so he could hand them out. Then he showed us a typed letter hanging on the wall from a Canadian woman that had been sent several years ago. He gently took it down so we could read it…

Then we went into his bedroom that had one single bed with mosquito netting and absolutely nothing else. We didn�t ask where his wife slept; he introduced us to his children who were playing near the house but we were all scared to ask him about a wife because we were afraid there wasn�t one! I suspect there was a wife (or maybe more) but that she/they didn�t have enough status to be introduced to us. However we did meet his mother. There was a second little building with two rooms. Both were for cooking; wood was stacked near the walls and ashes from fires were still hot on the dirt floor.

While we were standing looking around we asked the Chief�s son some questions. How is your work divided among your family members…women do the easy work, he said patronizingly, �because it is simple� and men do the hard work. I looked at him to see if he was kidding. Then I asked him to give me an example of hard work and he answered that men build the house and work in the fields. He was not telling the truth about work in the fields though because in all the time we have been in these African countries we have seen only women working in the fields and we have seen a lot of men sitting. About this time the village brickmaker joins us-an obviously important man in the village. He explains that houses used to be made of mud and sticks but now they are made of cement floors, mud-baked brick walls covered over with mud and thatched roofs.

We move down the trail and are introduced to some extended family members while we take more pictures. As we walk the mile and a half past the homes to the center of the village children in tattered clothing come running out and grab ahold of our hands…as soon as Janine takes her hand away they latch onto it as soon as she puts it down again. Soon we have about 12 children walking-talking-laughing with us. We visit the elementary school-walls open to the outside, dirt floor and nothing else. A white volunteer from England is the teacher and has 90 students in one room.

I say to one of the older children that they must have to be very quiet during school. He said oh, yes, very quiet. I asked what happens if a student is not quiet. He says, oh, he is just asked to become quiet again. I gathered that this request carried a lot of power. From what I understood him to say, school is held in three shifts during the day so all the students have a chance to attend. Parents have to pay school fees so sometimes, he says, tourists will offer to help a family with the fees for the children.

The littlest, about 2, says he has to pee-pee. I repeat this to the Chief’s son and his reply was that “they all know where they are coming from” in other words he knows how to get home so he can pee.

Then we visit the hospital which amounts to a sort of two-room outpatient clinic. There are half a dozen beds in one very unsanitary room. He shows us a second room with a very crude delivery table that the nurses use, he says, to deliver babies. He says there is no doctor and if patients are very sick they are sent to another hospital in a nearby town. We were confused, however, because on the way back down the trail a man of about 30 in an acrylic athletic suit was in the yard looking after his young twins (this was a Sunday) and he introduced himself as the village doctor. Bob shook his hand, introduced himself and asked him some questions…the doctor had gone to medical school in Malawi and the weekdays were very very busy for him, he said. These two understand each other.

We walked past a tiny little grocery with a few items and buy some pop for the kids to share. The chief�s son directs the sharing much to our relief and the kids-anywhere from two to ten years old-are all very cooperative-which they probably wouldn’t have been if it had just been us handing it out. We pass a few tables with some vegetables like potatoes, yams, tomatoes, cassavas for sale. I buy a package of local tea and some biscuits (cookies).

Then we head back down the two-mile trail through corn and cassava fields to the camp. At the gate of the camp, children want to sell us bracelets made of telephone wire. We tell them they are going to screw up the phone lines but they just laugh knowing they have been caught at their trick. Older boys are selling carvings and other crafts items. One tells me he is licensed to do massage and only charges $7 an hour. I don�t think I will have a massage…

On the way back the chief’s son points out the nice big Chief’s house nearby…well, nice and big for Malawi anyway. His father is Chief of the whole Tonga tribe that covers quite a large area with two thousand people, he said. I ask him what are most of the Chief’s duties. He answers that the Chief is a “very very busy man because he has to help people when they have problems”-a one man judicial system-unless a crime has been committed in which case the police are alerted.

Dinner & Dancing On A Mat in Malawi

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That night Rod has arranged for us to have dinner at the home of a local family. We each take a bowl and spoon from the truck and are led down a series of paths in the pitch black night air to a little mud hut. Various families and clans have their own paths which cross one another and we would have become hopelessly lost among the thorns and branches of this jungle-like neighborhood without our leader who we stuck to like glue.

Dinner of delicious chicken, rice, cooked cabbage and beans was served to us on straw mats on the ground in front of the hut. We had wanted to taste Cassava root, the staple of the people, but it wasn’t served that night. After dinner we were told that the children of the village would �sing� for us. What followed is almost impossible to describe. There were probably 40-50 small children aged 3 to about 8 (or it seemed like it was that many.) A few were as old as 12 or 14. They clapped and moved their little bodies in a very fast rhythm to their loud energy-charged chanting in their Tonga dialect. Spontaneously two would jump out in front of the group and really go at it-moving their hips, butts and legs.

When they all had a turn we were each invited by one child to come dance with him/her in front of everyone which absolutely delighted the children and greatly entertained the rest of us! The group was so charged and the chanting was so loud that when you danced with them you got a tremendous hit of emotional and physical energy. They were alive to this moment in which they were able to express themselves, affirm their presence in this world. They were visible, needed and important-this was their creation.

Then they all sang their National Anthem both in English and in dialect. Then we (Brits, Aussies, Kiwis and the two Americans) were asked to sing them a song in return. We had a hell of a time with our heads together trying to come up with a song that we all knew but we finally did it-Row Row Your Boat-in rounds even! Must have sounded pitiful to those Tongan ears! I will never forget those beautiful alive children as long as I live.

Then the older boys brought out some little paintings to sell for a couple dollars each. African culture is a culture of exchange. You give me something and I give you something. My dignity depends on it. But things of a very different order can be exchanged. Something non material can be exchanged for something of material value and vica versa. If an African bestows his presence and attention, imparts information (warning you about thieves, for example) which ensures your safety this generous man now awaits reciprocity and he will be very surprised if you turn on your heel and walk away. There is a cultural dissimilarity of expectations here that we did not understand in Egypt-not that it would have made it any easier. The question then was how do I refuse the exchange in the first place when the Other is insisting? We are still working on this.

Back at the gate to the camp a group of young boys and men had begun to drum. Several hours later we fell asleep…still listening to the sound of the Drums Still Drumming…a meditation on sound…during all these hours there was not a break in the rhythm…

To Malawi

Posted on by Laughingnomad

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May 15th 2002
Jambo! (Swahili for Hello!)
Back On The Road-Tanzania South to Malawi We were up at 4:30-no breaky (Australian, English, New Zealander and South African for breakfast) or coffee-and were on the road by 5:30. We are troopers. As the light creeps over the horizon we start to see shop signs along the road…Appointment Bar…Eggy Shop.