RoryRosen.com

Thought I was dead? You thought wrong son. I’m still alive. Africa, however hard she tried, did not manage to kill me. I’m now back in Canada after spending the last 3 months in South Africa. In the next few days I will try and recount those three months, which may have been the most eventful three months of my life. It’s good to be back.

We crossed into South Africa from Namibia via the Orange River border post, which is in the top left hand corner of South Africa (SA). The border is the Orange River itself and by crossing the bridge from Namibia, one suddenly finds themselves in Africa’s most powerful and well developed country. It’s odd to think that colonialism has created fictitious boundaries and borders that define the haves from the have not’s and by simply crossing a bridge one can see a stark contrast in the lives of ordinary citizens. Instantly the roads became pothole free (for the most part) and the width of the road actually made sense, two cars could now pass each other without one veering dangerously close to the ditch along the road side. As quickly as the roads became logical, the scenery changed from bland desert to bland desert with hills (Hooray!). We now had odd, ancient looking hills to look at and take our minds off the frustrating manor in which our Kenyan driver was driving. Bro when the roads were non-existent you could justify going 20km/h, but when they rival the autobahn, you don’t really have much of an excuse. The province we now found ourselves in is called the Northern Cape, which is renowned for…well nothing. Its population is a measly 400 000 and the only city I can name in the entire province is Springbok, which shares its name with the greatest rugby side in the world, the South African Springboks (1995, 2007 World Cup champions). We stopped in Springbok and picked up pies and various other baked goods before again heading south.

We had 3 days at this point before we would arrive in Cape Town. A one night stop over at a farm in the middle of nowhere, 2 nights in Stellenbosch (a city 50km from Cape Town) before arriving the morning of the third day in Cape Town. The further south we drove the more the environment changed from dry, desert to a green landscape populated by vast farms growing everything from oranges to grape. The farm where we stopped for the night was nestled in either the south part of the Northern Cape or the north part of the Western Cape (gonna need to think about that one). I don’t remember, but it’s irrelevant to the point I’m trying to make, which was that it was nestled. Nestled real good, right in some hills, which made for a beautiful backdrop from which to plan how we could get away from the guide that we had come to hate. We schemed that we would make a break for it as soon as we rolled into Stellenbosch the following day, which would mean only one more day until we could be rid of this asshole for the rest of our lives. I spent the rest of the night talking to the owner of the farm, a cool Afrikaans bloke who liked talking about anything, I mean anything. I was treated to an hour of the collapse of the juice industry due to the American recession. I learned how this farm produced 18 million oranges and that most would just have to be chucked because the Americans aren’t buying and who, other than a major juice corporation, has any use for that many oranges? Poor people I suppose, but I think they would rather see KFC go bust and then reap the rewards of free chicken. Black people love fried chicken.

We arrived in Stellenbosch the following day. If you have ever had the good fortune to have drunk a South African wine, there’s a good chance it came from here, as the fertile soils that surround S-bosch have produced some of the world’s finest wines (my favourite being a relatively cheap one called “Fat Bastard”). The architecture in Stellenbosch is highly unique, but it’s easy to see that it has drawn heavily from its colonial roots. The town is full of trees and is very green. It is just like your typical chilled university town and has a very relaxed atmosphere to it. From the little we saw of S-bosch, it seemed very nice, but that couldn’t stop Pierre, Mitchell and myself from immediately packing our bags the minute we pulled into the backpackers. None of us are big wine connoisseurs and reasoned that there isn’t much point staying in a wine city, when you don’t like wine, or your tour guide for that matter. We booked a place on the first available shuttle and informed the tour company that we were leaving a minute before the shuttle actually arrived. We took comfort in knowing that us leaving early would mean more paper work for our guide friend and in that sense we did indeed get the last laugh. How do you like them apples Tito?

I’m back! Just like those Herpes that you haven’t seen for a while, I am most definitely back. Currently in Johannesburg, it is now time to do some serious catching up with the posts, even if my Aunt may yet still be the only person in South Africa, if not the world, to still have dial up internet. Yes, that phone line eating, gargled noise making monster from our childhood is what I now have to deal with. Hooray.  

Leaving Namibia was a reprieve, but at the same time saddening. While we were all happy to be leaving the unbelievable heat behind, we were also sad as our 2 ½ month odyssey to Cape Town was drawing to an end. Cape Town was within a few hundred kilometers and the journey from the Namibia/SA border isn’t a particularly interesting one.

We had now entered not only the land of my birth, but also what many would say might just be the most interesting experiment into race relations ever contrived whether accidental or otherwise.  South Africa, once a country vilified the world over for its federal policy of Apartheid, is now a beacon, however faint, of what may be achieved not only in Africa, but around the world when people of varying skin colors, religions and tribes embrace democracy and freedom for all. We had entered Africa’s economic powerhouse, the most modern and developed nation on the continent. A nation that may be considered, dare I say it, first world? One stresses to find a definition for this term, but maybe. Driving through the Cape Flats would quickly change one’s mind, so to coin a phrase, South Africa is instead deemed 2^nd world (mathematically this would represented as follows: 3^rd – 1^st = 2^nd = SA). We had also just entered what many independent research groups call: the most dangerous, non warring country in the world. In other words, with the exception of real shit holes (Iraq, DRC, Somalia, etc), you are statistically more likely to be killed, raped or robbed in South Africa than anywhere else you can realistically find yourself. Including Detroit.  

I say South Africa is a second world country because it contains major elements of both the traditional first world, but also of what people see as the third world. As there is no set definition for first world, let’s assume it includes the following: proper road networks, functioning government, infrastructure comparable to other first world countries, modern luxuries (i.e.: all the shit in the Sears home department), fast internet, hot women (although this area is still grey as, Germany is considered a first world country, even while lacking this critical element), etc. Now South Africa has all of these things, including, the second highest number of BMW’s in the world after our friends the Germans. But it also has many elements of a third world nation, including: massive unemployment, scary amounts of crime, a free flowing river of arms and narcotics, an effectively single party state, complete lack of a functioning government education system. For these reasons South Africa is unlike anywhere else in the world, it is the absolute definition of a 2^nd world country, mega rich and mega poor both sharing the same space. In a recent UN study South Africa was found to have the largest gap between wealth and poverty in the world. It is common to see a Ferrari drive past a squatter camp or people who have absolutely nothing begging in the Cape Town equivalent of Beverly Hills, Camps Bay. 

The legacy left behind by both European colonization, and Apartheid are more evident in modern day South Africa, than that tattoo of a killer whale on your right bicep that you thought looked cool ten years ago. The Europeans are responsible for one of the most visible aspects of SA, white people.  Contrary to what most Americans and Canadians think, there are indeed white people in Africa, I myself am a testament to that. White people, who number around 4 million in SA have been here since the 1600s and are just as African as traditional “Africans,” many of whom themselves didn’t arrive in this part of Africa until much later than the whites.  The Europeans are responsible for everything from the architecture to the food, from the sports to the parliamentary style.  South Africa could even be called an Afro-European nation.

Apartheid (A-Par-Tait) is a distinctively South African chapter in the book of world history. However, countries that were quick to condemn South Africa for its policies don’t have to look far to see that they were just as bad. Up until the sixties the US implemented almost the exact same system. South Africa asked Canada for help when setting up Apartheid; after all they knew very well how to oppress the Indians. Britain wasn’t any better, they invented the slave trade.  South Africa’s downfall would be that they were the last of dying breed (much like tigers, sharks, pandas, most frogs, sea turtles, black rhino, snow leopards and a host of other beautiful creatures thanks to China (why the hell would anyone want to eat this shit)). The word Apartheid is Afrikaans for “separate development,” which was the stupid goal of the Nationalist Party way back in 1948. Somehow they thought that by excluding 70% of the population from all meaningful decisions they would build a world superpower. Gheez guys, that sure f***ed up. They believed in having a sort of nation, within a nation. The whites would do their thing and the blacks would do theirs, however, the whites would still have most of the control. What this did was create a Utopia for whites, but at the same time created a meager subservient existence for the majority of blacks. Before I forget, I know there are a lot of people out there who think calling people of color, “black” is somehow racist, you are wrong because they are black, I am white, it’s the truth, not racist, reality. After years and years of political blockades from hypocritical countries, massive uprisings, and foreign wars, white South Africans VOTED (whites actually decided to stop the fighting contrary to popular belief)  to create an inclusive democracy. How SA went from point A to point B is incredibly interesting and you should Google it, or better yet go out and get a book. That was in 1994. Fast forward to today and South Africa is now crime ridden, reverse racist, but very good at cricket. Apartheid was sick and screwed up this country to no end. It’s responsible for Soweto, District Six, massive poverty, the country of Lesotho and the black-white equality. On the other end of the spectrum, what few people will admit, but just try and tell me I’m wrong, it’s responsible for: South Africa being Africa’s richest, most modern and developed country. It’s responsible for Africa being a world leader, a country where food and medical care is available at all times. It is responsible for Africa’s greatest ever leader, Nelson Mandela. As much as the ANC government tries to say it is, it is not responsible for AIDs, crime, the failing education system or lack of jobs, they instead use it as a scape goat because they are lazy. If one is honest, as much as Apartheid is viewed as deleterious by the rest of the world, it was a mixed blessing and is the reason the new black upper class can buy that new BMW or that mansion on the hill. I dare someone to tell me I’m wrong.

You have probably learned more than you ever wanted to know about South Africa, which is good; at least you didn’t spend the last ten minutes watching Big Brother 45. You now have an understanding, however small, of the country we were now entering. If South Africa didn’t have crime it would be the most beautiful nation in the world. Fact. One only hopes the 2009 elections will help change things for the better. This is a young country, but it has potential, much like a young Tiger Woods. Where it will go is anybody’s guess.

Im done writing now, I’m gonna go BBQ some chicken on a George Forman grill. In closing here are songs you need to go and illegally download right now:

                -Forgive Me – Leona Lewis

                -Heartless – Kanye West

                -Single Ladies – Beyonce ** you’ve gotta YouTube this one as the video is mesmerizing.  

                -Human – The Killers

 

 

In case you suddenly find yourself on Jeopardy:

 

South Africa is responsible for the following:

-Probably AIDS

-First heart transplant (no wonder Canada/US snipes all our doctors)

-Nelson Mandela

-Charlize Theron  (Currently dating Stuart Townsend)

-Amarula

-Diamonds (De Beers)

- A large proportion of the world’s mercenaries (most work for the US in the “rebuilding” of Iraq)

-The Springboks

-Oscar Pistorius

-The gold in your wedding band

 

 

I’m now writing from Durban, on South Africa’s east coast. Yes, I know, its been a while since I last wrote, but hell, not even you, my attentive reader will be able to resist reading what I have coming up in the next few posts. These posts don’t write themselves and the events in them aren’t made up, I have to explicitly go out and get myself into trouble all for the sake of the reader, you. So gimmie a break, I’m almost in Johannesburg, where I will have free, unobstructed internet access for weeks, and from there I’ll be able to catch up with the blogging; trust me…. You don’t want to miss this.

            However, our story last saw our heroes Rory Rosen, Mitch Tallon and Pierre Roos leaving Swakopmund and heading down into the wild west of central Namibia. Heading south from Swakopmund is surreal because it’s the last time you see real civilization until South Africa. (a couple of real sketchy guys just walked into the internet café…shit, act casual). You basically head into the heart of the Namib Desert, into dune country. Namibian dune country is classic desert, exactly what you would expect to see on Lawrence of Arabia, National geographic or what I envision the post apocalyptic world to look like. It’s sandy to say the least. (the sketchy dudes are saying stuff in a language I am unfamiliar with). Massive dunes of reddish iron colour stained sand rises up to heights of 100m or more. Almost nothing grows on the dunes… no, actually nothing grows on the dunes. But what does grow, grows in between the dunes, is low lying, and hardier than an Enron executive in a maximum security prison. Despite the barren and inhospitable environment of rural Namibia, it is still breath takingly beautiful and truly a sight to behold. (the sketchy dudes left… praise the lord). 

            Now is probably a good time to note something I forgot to include in my last entry. In Swakop I decided it was probably a good time for a change, and in order to do so I decided to dye my hair. I went to the local Pick n Pay (read: grocery store) and picked up a bottle of Nice and Easy 120 Natural Dark Brown. I then enlisted the help of Pierre and a girl I know, to help dye my hair. When dying hair I figured it’s always good to have an expert (read: girl) on hand. However our expert had to go skydiving (like that’s more important than my hair??) and so she said she would show Pierre how to do it before she left. Considering we had already opened the bottle and the instructions (I read upwards of 13 times) which said the dye lost its ability to dye after an hour, we had no choice, but to go ahead. Great, Pierre, the guy with dreadlocks, would be dying my hair. After promising me he wouldn’t burn off my hair with peroxide (4^th ingredient on the list of many, many unsafe sounding chemicals in the box) he proceeded surprisingly well. He worked with precision and took his time, seemingly caring about what he was doing. After about 20 mins my head was covered and we began waiting. In the time between dying my hair and washing out the dye, I managed to convince Mitch to use the remaining dye to dye his hair. Pierre also decided to dye his left armpit. Although the box said 45 minutes was the maximum time one should leave the dye in, I left it for an hour and a half to make sure it worked, before washing it out. Upon drying my hair, I noticed that my hair had indeed gone darker, as had Pierre’s armpit, but there were still streaks of blonde. Damn. Fast forward 2 weeks and the dye has completely washed out. Fuck you Nice and Easy.

            We headed south, and due to a lack of things to see in Namibia (besides sand, of course) our wonderful tour company decided to take us to a seal colony. YAY! (Read: I’d rather be in jail.)  On the drive to Cape Cross (point of land where said seals are to be found) I asked the tour guide to describe the seals and all he said was “imagine the worst smell you’ve ever smelt and this is 10x worse. Three things make up this smell, dead seals, seal shit and fish.” That’s not too bad I thought, that just about describes my brother’s bedroom. Upon arriving at the colony, the guide  had apparently instructed us to stay on the board walk at all times, an instruction that I later learned  as I, for some reason, hadn’t heard it.

            I jumped off the bus, and that’s when it hits you like an NFL linebacker. The stench of seals is gut wrenching, a smell from hell… times 12. In the name of discovery, I ventured on with my compatriots, Pierre and Mitch. We covered the 100 m to the board walk, where we gazed on what thousands of people before us had seen - 100 000 Cape Fur Seals. For anyone who is ignorant enough not to have seen a seal in their lives, either on TV or on any major coast line in the world, the seal is the retard of the sea. Ugly, noisy and constantly reeking of dead fish, the seal isn’t most people’s idea of beauty. However, for a number of reasons seals are also kind of cool - eg. pup mortality is 60% simply because seals are really laid back. So laid back that they forget where they’ve left their babies, frequently roll over their babies and generally don’t value the lives of their own offspring (bastards). No matter how ridiculous they look on land, seals are incredibly swimmers and watching them ride waves is actually a decently captivating activity to observe. Male seals are 7ft long and weigh between 200 and 360kg. They feed in the open ocean, mainly on bony fish. Fur Seals main enemy, besides deodorant, is the Great White Shark.

            We walked along the board walk that goes almost right up to the colony. The colony seems to consist of many more babies than adults (Durex, get in there) and watched as seals did sealy things like fight, sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep and swim. The area under the board walk was filled with baby seals that were trying to escape the heat (another seal killer) and it was one of these, that I managed to  touched, even though I doubt that was allowed. Upon coming to the end of the boardwalk Pierre and I continued down the beach, towards the seals. We saw no signage that said anything different so we went on a walk down the beach, past many dead seals, as well as babies walking along. We managed to get around 10m from a large group of seals before we heard whistling behind us.

 

Rory: Man I think that’s Tito (our guide), he sounds pissed.

Pierre: Should we turn around?

Rory: Probably, just play stupid.

 

Tito storms up the beach shouting. This guys pissed. He motions for us to get off the beach and we follow.

 

Tito: You risked my life, my job, the seals. Are you crazy?

Rory: Sorry we didn’t know.

Pierre: Sorry

Random French Guy: Are you crazy how could you go so close to seals?

Random French Guy 2: No, I’m on drugs and even I wouldn’t do that.

Rory: yawning

French People: jfoilohgoisogfslkjfoisgnghsghgndohgioudhgld

Rory Thinking: These people are idiots, I can walk faster than any seal and the beach is open without signage. Man I wish there was a McDonalds nearby.

 

Cape Cross ended with the guide giving us one final warning that if we did anything else, he would kick us off the trip. Big deal Tito, I could walk to Cape Town from here.

            Next we headed into the desert for a tour of the dunes and to see what life had actually found a way to make it in the Namib. Our guide was a middle aged Afrikaner, who insisted his name was “Bushman”. He hadn’t owned shoes in 12 years and had even been to Japan to get married without shoes. Pierre in 20 years??

            He took us around the desert showing us various beetles, plants and animals. This guy was the Wikipedia of the desert - he knew his stuff. He also walked around on 50 degree sand like it aint no thang. Bushman if you ever stumble upon this site… you sir, are legend.

            Our last night in Namibia was spent on the Orange River, the river that divides Namibia and South Africa. The Orange River is awesome because it flows fast, is fairly shallow and crocodiles are not known to live in it. Pierre and I took this opportunity (while we were supposed to be cleaning the truck) to get a respite from the heat. We battled across the river into South Africa, relaxed in the motherland for a while, before swimming back across into Namibia. The swim back sucked because I got caught up in a current and banged my nuts on a rapid.

            We spent the last night in Namibia playing pool and checking out German women (surprisingly good looking). Mitch and Pierre, realizing we had a big drive day the next day decided that they would stay awake until morning and then sleep the whole drive. They both got pissed and kept everyone awake, missed breakfast and passed out on the truck. The plan would have been alright however they hadn’t banked on the international border we had to cross. We arrived at the South African border crossing, a sleek operation with a host of security personal. Mitch, who I had just woken up, stumbles into the office to get his passport stamped, shouting random, incomprehensible words. The whole office looks at him, the border guards ask themselves if they should let a retard into the country and I’m just standing there thinking how glad I was that I chose sleep over Castle Lager.

 

We all pile back onto the truck and set off with gusto once again. We drive past a sign that I’ve been waiting for, for a very long time: Welcome To South Africa.

           

Another update from the field. I’m still in Cape Town and loving it. But this post isn’t about Cape Town, its about Namibia. Once again this post has been a long time coming, but honestly, in Cape Town it is very hard to confine yourself indoors and write for two hours when the weather is beautiful and you realize you are in one of the worlds hippest cities. But anyhow….

      Namibia, former German Southwest Africa, is a desert. The vast majority of the country contains nothing but sand. Lots and lots of sand. And it was here, through the Caprivi strip, that we headed next.
      We entered Namibia through, what most people viewing a map would consider, Africas appendix. A thin strip of pointless land jutting out into three other countries, known as the Caprivi strip. From the border we headed west, on the best roads to date, deep into the country. Our first stop was Etosha National Park, Namibias best national reserve and one of the finest in Africa. It is a massive stretch of land that contains all the usual African mammals from Springbok to Lion. The park is so massive that, once you enter it, you need to drive for 3 hours just to get to your designated camp site. In 40 degree heat it is utterly sick. Because of the heat, none of us actually felt much like stopping and watching animals. I couldn’t have given a damn  that this lion here was sleeping or that wildebeest there was taking a dump… I just needed water. We rolled into what many people would consider a 5 star resort. Depressingly enough we were the poor students and, as such, had to sleep in tents outside. But we still had access to the swimming pool which was good enough for us. Being summer, and given that Etosha was in its growing season, we really didn’t see much game on any of the 4 game drives we took - so really it was a waste of time stopping here. The only saving grace was on the second night when Pierre, either through copius amounts of alcohol or sheer stupidity, decided it was a good idea to eat a rhino beetle (video to come, pending decent internet access). Now if you don’t already know, try and google “rhino beetle”  and yes, that thing you see under search results, was actually in his mouth and finding its way into his large intestine. Too gross.
    It was still 40 degrees when we left for our next camp, the place where we would spend that one night a year - when anything goes - New Years Eve. Considering the fact that Namibia is a large country with the second lowest density of population in the world, cities are separated by massive stretches of nothing. We therefore didn’t have enough time to make it to a party city such as Swakopmund or Windhoek, so instead we settled for the cheetah park. Now the premise of this place is cool - a farm full of cheetahs - but for a new years venue it kinda sucked. The place is basically a cattle ranch in the middle of nowhere and 10 years ago, it began rescuing cheetahs from the surrounding area (they are deemed as pests by farmers, who trap and shoot them to prevent losses to cattle). One of the rescued cheetah’s had 3 cubs which were raised as pets in the house. Now fully grown, they are basically large house cats with the exception that, if you piss these cats off, like I do to my cat daily at home, they can kill you. It was amazing being so close to such powerful animals, being able to touch and interact so close with them. Pierre, as usual, pissed one off and it bit him on the nipple. Hilarity ensued. The farm also keeps 20 or so wild cheetahs which accompany the staff during feeding. Although the cheetahs were amazing, the night wasn’t anything special. There was a small bar, run by the farm owner’s son, where we drank and played pool into 2009. The new year was welcomed in at the end of a snooker cue - hopefully 2009 will be a great vintage. It is interesting to note that the three of us are becoming very good at pool/snooker, as we spend a great deal of our nights on the road persuing this hobby.
    From the cheetah park we drove to a little city on the coast know as Swakopmund. Swakop is where people migrate for a  quick adrenaline fix, as all forms of extreme sports are catered for. From sand boarding to sky diving, Swakop has it all. We were really looking forward to Swakopmund itself and the 5 days of freedom away from the overland truck, which by this point, we were beginning to hate. Swakop, being previously a German held territory, has the distinction of being more German than Germany itself. German is spoken heavily, the architecture is German, the food is German, the beer looks German, its safe to say “Swakopmund is German”. So German in fact, it’s not uncommon to see swastikas on walls and in pubs. Swakop also holds the distinction of being the birth place of Shiloh Jolie-Pitt, one of Angelina Jolie’s many children. Unfortunately, being situated on the Atlantic ocean means that the water around Swakopmund is freezing cold and therefore you aren’t able to really swim. But who wants to swim when you can be flinging yourself out of planes or riding sand dunes.
    The first activity we lined up was sandboarding. This sport pretty much involves being driven out into the desert to one of the massive (think 200m high) sand dunes that make up the surrounding area. From there, one hikes (no chair lifts as the dunes shift constantly) up the dune, which is hard because A) its hotter then hell and B) for every two steps you take up the dune, the sand forces you one step down. When you finally reach the summit you can choose to either pass out from major heat exaustion or else strap on and ride. Sand boarding is done on modified snowboards which are covered in floor polish to make them slide. The actual boarding sensation is very close to snowboarding and as such Pierre and I caught on pretty quickly. After a few runs we waxed up a piece of cardboard and went down the hill. It’s unreal how fast one can travel on nothing more than cardboard - we got up to 65 km/hr before my helmet broke off and flew down the hill. Safe. For the next week I dug sand out of every oriface on my body… and I mean EVERY.
     Next up was quad biking. Renting out quad bikes to people like Pierre and I should definitely be considered an insurance risk. We both chose the biggest, most powerful ones on offer, and then, after listening to the saftey proceedures,  proceeded to start them up and fly off into the desert. After a few minutes of learning how they handled we were flying up and down dunes, urging the guide to “push it to the limit,” Rick Ross style. He told us not to hit jumps, but come on that’s a bit unrealistic, that’s the best part. In order to hide from the guide, we hung out at the back and when he wasn’t paying attention, we would leave paths and hit anything that vaguly resembled a jump, regardless of whether we could see the landing or not. This led to a number of close-ass calls. In retrospect, it wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but unfortunately in the heat of the moment people do silly things, especially us teenagers! Quading the desert is something everyone must do before they leave this earth.
Swakopmunds night life was fairly good. We got into the launch party, which was packed with people, of a new alcoholic beverage that tastes like apple sours. It was cool being in a big club after so many nights in the bush. I won’t bore you with the details, as nothing of note really happened in these clubs.
After debating whether we should stay in Swakop for a few extra days we decided against it, instead opting to continue down to Cape Town. Cape Town, a jewel of a city, will be my next episode. Until then…Holla.

Its unbelievable how time flies, I throw up a post and next I look its 10 days old already. It seems to be a reoccurring pattern that I begin every post apologizing for a long delay, but now having reached South Africa the frequency should pick up. For anyone interested I’m currently in Cape Town and it’s 25 degree’s Celsius.

Returning to Zambia sucked, I speak for everyone when I say we actually missed Zimbabwe, but gotta keep rolling… Our last night in Zambia we stay in an absolutely brilliant hostel, Fawlty Towers. It was much better than the shithole, Grubbies Grotto, that we had been told we couldn’t return to prior to leaving for Zim. In retro we should have seen that coming when staying at a place called “Grubbies Grotto”… it just sounds like hole. That final night saw us all become Sherlock Holmes trying to find Mitch’s Ipod. He had first told us he couldn’t find it in Zimbabwe, but not 100% sure he took it and waited until getting back to Zambia to panic. He searched through all his stuff, as well as everyone else’s, before conceding that it was stolen. We managed to piece together, what I’m sure is a fairly solid deduction (conclusion reached through a logical progression of steps). We followed many leads (something or someone that may help move an investigation toward a solution) disregarding various red herrings (a false clue that misleads the sleuth, ie: myself). We didn’t have a stool pigeon (who the hell came up with this term?) (Informer). I however, finally deduced that the only time Mitch’s Ipod could have been stolen was on the bridge crossing into Zim, probably right when he was bunji jumping. Being well acquainted with the criminal mind I quickly worked out the modus operandi (method of operation (m.o.) that a criminal employs during his crimes). Right before the jump we had been hassled by a couple guys, who were trying to sell us various goods (none of which we wanted… one guy had a “lion tooth” which I’m pretty sure was a half eaten chicken bone), they lingered around (this is an international border remember) not doing much of anything, caught between Zambia and Zimbabwe like ghosts between the living and the dead (poetic, see I really can write). Mitch left his bag containing his Ipod (Model: Ipod Touch 1^st Gen. 8GB. BLK. Serial: 122453432. Songs: 879. Videos: 1. 18+ Videos: 1) next to the railing before the jump and assumed someone would keep an eye on it. Unfortunately, everyone’s attention was drawn to a human being throwing themselves off a bridge, which gave any one our suspects’ ample time to quickly zip down, remove and zip up. Only noticed days later, we were powerless. Mitch conceded defeat, hoping that Dale (his dad) hadn’t skimped on the travel insurance (word from Dale pending). Rest assured somewhere right now, an African is using the Ipods touch capabilities to seamlessly scroll through hours of Rick Ross and Kanye West.

If you haven’t noticed I’ve read quite a few detective novels on this trip, my book count is now up to 9 books.

Back in Zambia we met up with of couple guys that had stayed in Zambia, instead of crossing over and we learned that Africa had indeed been unkind to them. One guy had gone on a booze cruise on the Zambezi and had gotten too pissed. He woke up the next day to find his Camera (not the average point and shoot, $1100) as well as 8 memory cards gone. Cameras can be reclaimed with insurance, pictures can’t. Two months in Africa lost is tough. Another girl had fallen asleep (presumably pissed) and had her handbag stolen from inside the backpackers (Grotto again… what a shit hole). They found her bag down the street, void of anything of value.

We rolled out of Zambia via the most welfare type ferry you can imagine. The Zambian/Botswana border is once again a river and one must take a ferry across. On went our truck, the ferry stayed afloat… amazing. On went 3 cars… incredible. On went 75 people… god exists. We crossed the river and disembarked into Botswana.

Botswana, an African success story of sorts. Gaining independence in 1966, it was one of the world’s poorest and undeveloped countries, that is, until they found diamonds. The government used the money towards the development of the country (an African rarity) and built roads, cities and thus created jobs. Botswana is now a safe, stable and contributing member of Southern Africa. Although much of the country is rural there are roads linking primarily major cities. This makes it a difficult country to navigate, however, it becomes more bearable with a 4×4.

We hammered single lane highways up to Maun, one of the counties largest cities. Besides diamonds, Botswana has a massive beef trade and has sophisticated programmes in place to safeguard against mad cow disease. They are very serious about it, in fact they are actually TOO serious. You have to stop your vehicle every 150km and then walk over disinfection mats, while they search your car for any other shoes you might have so they too can be disinfected. They then confiscate any meat or milk products. Cheerfully they wave as you drive over another mat (because mad cow loves Goodyear) before continuing on, knowing that tonight you will be lacking protein in your meal.

Maun has the distinction of being the closest major city to the Okavango delta, the only reason anyone goes to Botswana. The delta is the worlds largest inland delta and covers an area of 15 000km2. Amongst its marshes and low lying shrubs one can find elephant, hippo, crocodiles, and countless birds (Hitchcock would be proud). We spent 3 days in Maun, one of which was Christmas day. I, being Jewish, aren’t affected by Christmas, but I didn’t say no to sleeping on the floor of one of the 5 star rooms rented by some girls for the occasion.

On Christmas day itself we hired a plane to fly over the delta, that way we could see more of it in the least amount of time possible. We pitched up to the airport and after going through a metal detector, which  I kid you not, was manned by a guard who was fast asleep, we boarded a 3 seater plane piloted by none other than Maverick. The pilot, an Aussie, looked as if he had been taught to fly with Iceman, Goose and Raven, straight out of Top Gun. Seriously this guy looked like Tom Cruise. How fitting. I called shot gun and so I got to ride next to Mav, whilst Mitch was relegated to the back (Pierre opted to go by wooden Mokoro into the delta… I preferred to fly). I helped Mav check tail winds and I relayed readouts from the dash… together we would conquer the delta, destroying any Soviet bogies we might encounter. We took off and reached cruising speeds of up to 250km/h (a speed I once reached in my Honda Odyssey driving from North Dakota to South Dakota). We didn’t find any migs that day but we did see the magnificent water plains that are the Okavango Delta (Okavango Swamps, whichever you prefer). We sighted countless birds, crocodiles, hippos and elephants (as alluded to above). Being the wet season, the delta was at her greatest, bulging with water and teeming with life. Seeing it from the air was truly rewarding.

On the journey home I tried to get Mav to do a back flip. He declined on account that the wings would break off. Where was barrelrolling, flipping, picture taking from the movie Mav? Where?

That night I caught a snake (species: unknown) in the girls bathroom of the hotel. The hotel workers wanted to stomp on it with a boot, but, thanks to me he lives to slither another day (Rory, Snake Saver…. Nice ring to it?).

We got slammed at a local bar… it being Christmas and all. Somehow one of the chicks we were with talked a Botswana tour operator into driving us home, Mitch and I had to ride in the back of the bakkie (read: pickup truck), which was fun. Mitch doesn’t remember the ride.

Botswana, not really blessed with much more than diamonds, swamps and great people held little else for us and so on we rolled…to Namibia!

 

**Pierre still doesn’t have sandals, his feet are becoming shoe leather**