Good Thoughts

I am asking everyone who reads this to send good thoughts out to Daisy, who is starting her Kili trek today.

Sweet, silly, reckless, dear creature, go well, take care. I am thinking of you!

N.

Memory Burn

Something funny is going on with the technology in this town (Stone Town). Yesterday I spent nearly an hour trying to call home yesterday: firstly the payphones in the whole area were not working, and I had to keep going from internet cafe to internet cafe trying their phones and listening again and again to the same recording "The number does not work, The number does not work", (In Swahili, mind!). It turned out that --for some reason-- the standard Canadian country code, 0-1 (which you have to put in front of the number when calling internationally) is different here, so you have to start with 3 zeros, and then the number. Once I figured this out (rather, once somebody told me) I was able to get through. Happily.

This morning I went to get my memory card burned to a CD. I got a bit spoiled with this technology last year, in Central America, where there were internet shops on every corner and everything was cheap. I had only seen one sign for this service in Stone Town, so I went there first (even though there internet was slow beyond belief), but it was closed. So I went to two others places, and neither of them were able to do it. I went back to the first place, now open, and was told they only burned cards after 2 PM (why?), and I am leaving at 12. Finally I found somewhere that did it, albeit for twice the price of the first, and gave them the card. That was an hour ago. Finally I went to check what he was doing, and the computer was in pieces, all over the floor. "Is not working!" he says, "Oh," I say.

Hey, at least they have power!

N.

Dancing With the Masai

The Full Moon Party is a famous (infamous?) fixture of tourism in Thailand; the standard story is consume massive quantities of alcohol (and god knows what else) and congregate on a beach, under a full moon, and ___ (dance, go swimming, watch fire shows, get mugged-- you know, the usual). It's one of those things you are just supposed to say you have done. "Have you been to Thailand? Have you been to a Full Moon Party?"

This could not have any less appeal for me, as I am not a big party person to begin with (you know me, you know this is an understatement), and the stories I have heard about this particular type of party could make your heart stop. Luckily I was saved from finding a way to get out of this situation by the lack of a full moon, while I was in the vicinity.

As soon as we arrived in Stone Town (Zanzibar), I saw the posters on shops, on trees, on the walls of the Old Fort and the House of Wonders and the ice cream parlour: Full Moon Party-- June 22nd, Kendwe Beach! "Oh dear," I thought, and said nothing, hoping the others had not seen the signs. "Are you going to the Full Moon Party?" says the girl sitting next to me, "Big night! It'll be great!" "I don't know," I say, "I'd kind of like to enjoy actually having a room by... staying in my room." "You can't stay in your room!" says my hard-partying friend, "It's at the hotel right next to ours! No escape!"

No escape. I am painting a very bleak picture here on purpose, as it most accurately sums up my attitude going into to this whole thing. For most of the day, as we walked through the old slave market and took turns fielding the overly aggressive street vendors all of whom are carrying CDs, which they shove in our faces and sing Jambo! Jambo bwana...", I am still telling myself "No-- I won't go!" but even I know this is unlikely. I am too much a sucker for a good story, to stay behind.

Kendwe Beach will stand out in my memory most for the size of the snails which were everywhere, crawling up walls and down pathways and lying in the sand like fist-sized conch shells... oh yes, and the Full Moon Party!

The posters said it would run 10 PM-10 AM, with fire dances and a DJ all the way from Dar (about 2 hours, by ferry). Around 11:30 (fashionably late), just as we were about to head over (the whole 20 meters between our hotel and the neighbouring resort) Anna cornered us to warn that "Under no circumstances" were we to walk alone on the beach "Especially the girls-- the dodgy beach boys are already hovering!" She also told a story or two which I will not repeat here, but which made us more than willing to stick together.

The others were well on their way to giddy-intoxication as we scurried down along the beach, passed said dodgy beach boys, and towards the booming, pulsing, strobing, sweating techno "hut" that was the neighbouring bar. Now, I have years of practice at being the sober one at the party, but this was taking the experience to a whole new level. The music was very bad and very loud (then again perhaps any music sounds bad at that volume?) and it was nearly impossible to work out where the dance floor ended and the beach began, as the sand was everywhere.

The heart of the party was nearest the music, nearest the flashing lights, and the frantic, flailing movement made it seem that the 100 or so bodies combined were a single being, and that there was no place for you in the crush. Beyond that --in slightly better light-- was a stunned looking spattering of tourists, mostly in awkward 3s or 4s who figured they weren't quite drunk enough to take the plunge into the center. This is were we congregated at first, shouting out to each other and straining to hear the answers from half a step away. We cross our arms across our chests, tight and unnatural, drink a bit an try to ignore the solid circle of "dodgy boys", sitting in the shadows, smoking and just watching the mayhem in a way that made your skin crawl. "I should leave," I think, "I want to leave!" But no way am I walking back up that beach --and passed those boys-- alone, and before I know it the girls have grabbed me by the hand and we are crashing towards the shuddering middle.

"I don't go to clubs. I don't dance. I don't know how to play this game..." I think, I try to say but no one can hear me. So I go along and thank god for the protection of a group of girls who are wearing far less clothes than me; a good distraction, if ever there were one! Slowly, slowly this becomes fun. We form our own circle within the madness, and look only at faces we know, suddenly laughing uncontrollably at the improbability of it all: we could be anywhere! Anywhere in the world-- Thailand or Miami or Mexico, anywhere other than where we are, on a far off beach on an island off the coast of Tanzania. "Life is funny," I think, and that is when the Masai enter the scene.

Someone is groping Daisy. This in itself is not unusual, Daisy spends a lot of time fending off such attentions, possibly because she wears no clothes, and to be honest isn't all that concerned about fending it off. But the person doing the groping is not who you would expect.

TO BE CONTINUED

Things I've Learned: Victoria Falls to Dar es Salaam

What I've Learned:

- Again I say: drink more water!
- The monkeys are faster than you are.
- Beware of tent pegs in the dark. Or light.
- Yes, these pictures will end up on facebook.
- There's nothing like doing nothing to work up an appetite.
- Four hands are better than two.
- Check your shoes before putting them on.
- You will never get 100% clean. Unless... no, never.
- Listen to your guide.
- You are far more likely to listen to your guide when you are in danger of being squashed/eaten.
- Thorns which pierce through tires can do impressive things to feet.
- National parks are not zoos.
- Never tell someone on the street your name.
- If you leave wet things (anything) in the truck, the truck will quickly smell like wet dog. Your friends will not be happy.
- You're not being as quiet as you think you are. (We can hear you whispering/fighting/giggling/etc.).
- Ridiculous amounts of time can be spent mocking slang from different countries. (Dunny? Soda? Pudding? Minging?)
- Group opinion is a powerful force.
- Always have one person on your side.
- Don't take pictures of anyone in military uniform. Or carrying guns.
- Learn from other's mistakes.
- If you see a spiderweb, chances are there is a spider.
- You have enough photos of sunsets.
- Most animals don't want to hurt you; don't give them a reason.
- Always have an escape route.
- Nothing will eat a dead hyeana.
- Scattegories can go on all day.
- Tired people will fight about anything.
- Keep an eye on your tab.
- US dollars speak.
- The worse the road, the nicer the people.
- You know a group has bonded when they begin discussing their bodily functions.
- There are no secrets on an overland truck.
- Bribery gets shit done. Faster.
- If you don't wear it two days in a row, it's still clean.
- Unscented products: don't mask the smell, but don't attract the mosquitos/bugs.
- It costs more to ship than to buy.
- Places always seem more real once you can measure out your distance from them on a road map.
- When removing your clothes, try to remember where you left them. (Finders keeps losers...)
- Being louder doesn't make you right.
- Never eat someone else's chocolate.
- Look out the window.
- Don't take larium.
- Whining and complaining have their place. It is certainly not here, and almost never now.
- "Save yourself, leave the cornflakes!"

N.

Creepy Crawlies

When I included "Never set your tent up on an anthill" in my list of things I had learned, I was not speaking from experience, but from something I witnessed. The night we spent in Chobe National Park (on a campsite sitting tantalizingly on the grounds of a 5 Star Resort) two of the girls ended up sleeping in the truck, because they were infested with tiny little beasties. In the morning I found that we had them too, but on the outside, and I nearly poisoned my poor tent mate, Raiding them out.

(I should clarify that both "beasties" and "creepy crawlies" are part of our daily vernacular, because Daisy is absolutely terrified of anything that crawles, and fits in through small spaces-- like the flaps of our tents).

It turns out I did not learn this lesson as well as I had hoped. To my credit, ever since that night I have been checking for ant holes (they are not hills here, but holes) before I set up the tent, but quite often we don't arrive at the campsite til after dark, when it is not easy to see the offending gullies.

Since the beginning of this segment (from Vic Falls to Dar es Salaam) my new tent mate and I have had only one night of undisturbed sleep. There have been a wide variety of reasons for this, which I will try and get into later. For now I will tell you about one particular night --my personal favourite (sense the sarcasm?)-- which we spent at a camp on the outskirts of a mid-sized town in Zambia.

Actually it's ironic that this night turned out to be so eventful, as the campsite we had stayed at for 3 days prior (outside of South Lawanga National Park, a place called Flat Dogs) was by far the most heart-attack-inducing place we had yet stayed, complete with elephants interrupting our dinner and a hippo scratching himself against our truck. But this night was by far the worst, for me at least.

I wake up, it's dark, which doesn't tell me much as I have gotten quite used to getting up for breakfast before sunrise. Much as I do every night here, repeatedly, I roll over on my very very uncomfortable sleeping mat and shut my eyes: only 5 (4, 3, 2, etc.) hours til morning! But this time my eyes won't close. Something is not right.

I am itchy and my ears are echoing with this awful sound --something between a kettle boiling and the squeal of a balloon when you stretch it across your fingers. Whatever it is, it is coming from somewhere eerily close to me, almost inside of me, and it made my head spin. I couldn't tell you why, but it was the sound that got me up.

So I check my alarm clock, and learn it is 3:30 AM. As quietly as I can I step over my sleeping tent mate (who is only with us for the Vic Falls-Dar es Salaam section, and has had more than her fair share of adventure/struggle in just those few weeks, mostly due to malaria-pill-induced nightmares and the fact we can't seem to make it through a night without some sort of catastrophe... okay that word may be a tad extreme) and stumbled out to one of the 3 blocks of badly-lit bathrooms, to look in the mirror.

I am covered in ants. And I don't just mean there was one or two on me and that was uncomfortable, I mean I was covered with creepy crawlies, and it was the first time in my life I have fully grasped the aptitude of that name (other than one unmentionable night in Bangkok... definitely another story!). From a foot away I could see the little bastards on my clothes, on my arms, on my hair... especially on my hair.

My first instinct was to scream, but thankfully my second --get these things off of me-- seemed more urgent, and I spent about 20 minutes soaking my hair in the sink and brushing ant bodies out of my clothes. Then I had to deciede what to do about my tent mate. Should I wake her? Should I just go to the truck, and sleep there? Maybe they've left her alone... and she would not appreciate being woken up at 4 AM nothing. But I know this makes no sense.

I go back to my tent and try to think how to phrase what I have to say. I turn on my flashlight, and try not to look at the back wall of the tent which seems to be moving of its own accord. "Hey!" I say. She sits up immediately, probably wondering if we are under hippo siege or hyeana attack... or possibly wondering where she is and I'm shaking her. "The tent is filled with ants," I say, as calmly and clearly as I can be, in this particular situation.

Did I mention my tent mate is Russian? And though her English is 1000 times better than my Russian will ever be... "Huh? Dentist?" she replies. "Ants!" I say, "The tent is filled with ants-- look!" and I shine my torch on the place where I have been sleeping, and be both jump backwards at once. The coat I have been using as a pillow has become an anthill, it's original colour not even visible beneath the squirming mass. She whimpers.

We wake up Anna, our leader, in our efforts to get into the truck (she sleeps on the roof, and can sense movement a mile away). "Try to be a bit gentle, mate!" she calls down from the roof when she realizes we're not burglars. "We have ants," I say, "Oh," she says, "Then you're allowed to make some noise." I locate the bug spray from one of the inumerable hidden compartments in the floor, and head back towards the tent. "Where are you going?" says my tent mate. "Carnage," I say, "To create carnage!" And that is exactly what I do. We slept on the truck... and I use the term "slept" in the loosest possible sense.

The next night we get into the tent, sweep out a few bodies, and lie down to sleep. "Good night!" says my tent mate. "Don't let the bed bugs bite!" I reply, and have to cover my face with both hands to stifle the laughter.

N.

Overland Clue

I killed Wayne, at breakfast, with a pen.
I was meant to kill Leslie, on the beach, with a piece of bread.
Unfortunately, Daisy killed me, with the hand sanitizer, on a ferry.

Oh the things we do to pass the time...

Snake Skin

The ever inquisitive Daisy --yes that is her real name-- discovered a snake skin under a tree at one of our lunch stops, and brings it back with her on the bus. I was half listening to her chattering on in the seat in front of me, stroking the brittle surface and asking big questions. "Wouldn't it be wonderful if people shed their skins like snakes do? I mean, I know we do shed our skin, but only in little bits, not all at once. Wouldn't it be nice to shed it altogether?"

I am still thinking about this question that evening, by which time someone has set their bag down on the snake skin and crushed it into dust, sparking a group debate about whose bag it was, and a long stony silence. Would it be nice? I try to imagine this, stepping out of your skin each night and having another one waiting. Being able to look back at yourself as you were, as you probably still are, a living fossil, even as you --the life-- leaves it. But could we bear to let it go?

I have been editing my book on this trip (lots and lots of drive days), and as it is effectively a massive pile of paper, I have been throwing it out, page by page, as I go. At least, that was the plan, but it has proved far more difficult than I could have anticipated. I once said --while traveling, of course-- that I often felt I was physically putting down roots, so that when I left a place I would find myself looking back on it and feeling --what I can only describe as-- home sickness. That would make sense in some cases, places I had stayed for a longer time or really gotten to know, but plenty of times it is simply waking up one morning and desperately wanting to stay in a particular hotel, or walk through a park or market, somewhere in the world.

I could even visualize it, as quite often when I travel I bring along old clothes to leave at the end (or along the way, as souvenir space requires). I would leave whatever it was on the bed in the hotel, and as I shut the door I could almost feel it getting farther and farther from myself. This feeling is magnified 1000 fold when it comes to writing. The very first time I went to throw out a page --actually pages 1 to 4-- I found myself walking around and around the campsite looking for the best trash can to throw it in, finally settling on the one in the truck.

It has been the same every time, til it is practically a ceremony; not that I don't know full well the trash can will be emptied each day, and my words will end up god knows where... but I can't quite seem to casually leave behind something I consider a part of myself. Is this the human way? Are those pages I drop off here and there --South Africa, Namibia, Botswana, Zambia, and no doubt beyond-- the bits of skin, of ourselves, we lose whether we will or no, whether we notice or not? If someone asked me to leave the whole 180 pages behind somewhere, could I do it? Or would that be a little too much like stepping out of my skin? For I can't help but fear that if I were to leave so much of myself behind there would nothing there to take its place.

Nevertheless I enjoy the feeling. Once I have separated myself from the chapter or the t-shirt or whatever it may be, I like sitting back as we drive away and thinking "I am leaving, I am moving on, but part of me is staying here." But just a part. I still have my skin.

N.

Town and Country

I am writing this from a strip mall on the outskirts of Lusaka, the capital of Zambia. A week ago I couldn't have told you the capital of Zambia if my life depended on it. Who said travel doesn't broaden?

I think the range of places I have managed to squeeze in internet time over the passed few years of traveling has been quite extraordinary: in super markets, airports, hardware stores, hostels, multi-level web cafes and everything in between. It is always the same, the lure of contact.

We have just returned from 2 and a half days of canoeing on the Lower Zambezi river, which was surprisingly easy, despite a few moments of heart-stopping terror (did you know that hippos kill more people than any other African animal? There were a lot of hippos) and some profoundly un-sought-for attention from the sketchy guide (who of course had to be in my boat).

It is very good to be here. I think it's important that that is said. For all the stress and challenge of this sort of travel (and we have had considerable helpings of both, in the past month) I will not lose sight of the sheer extraordinariness of just being here, sitting in the back of our dear tempremental truck and watching the world fly (or occasionally jolt and stutter) passed.

One of these days, I hope, I'll have enough computer time to tell you some stories. But in the mean time, it's back to the bush...

Thinking of you, at computers around the world.

N.

Cheeky Monkeys

This morning I was sitting in the sun. This was significant, as generally I sit in the shade, staying cool and watching the other (mostly British) lily-white passengers fanatically working the perfect tan. Honestly, the idea of working for a tan seems ludicrous to me, but to each his own (it's not my skin that's flaking off, at the end of the day).

But this morning it was surprisingly chilly, for June, for Zambia, and I had managed to get soaked by the spastic sprinkler not once but twice in the space of an hour; so I chose to sit in the sun. While I was sitting in the sun, writing in my surprisingly full journal and listening to Panic! At The Disco's "When the Day Met the Night", which is fast becoming the theme song of the summer, my best back-seat buddy --looking painfully hung over-- sat down beside me.

G: You're really in your element here, aren't you?

I asked him what he meant, and he said "Nice setting, perfect weather, just sitting there in the sunshine, writing away. This is as good as it gets for you, isn't it?"

This seemed a funny thing to say at the time --especially since I almost never set in the sun-- but as he staggered off down one of the thousand or so disorienting stone paths that decorate this campsite, it struck me that he may have been right. I am --or was at that moment-- pretty much in my ideal situation. Thank heavens there was someone there to point it out to me, or I might not have noticed! Ironic, isn't it?

I suppose I should say that the only thing that kept it from being an ideal-ideal situation, other than being far far from those I love, is that the campsite was crawling with monkeys. I hate monkeys. I admit this is mostly due to an extended love-hate relationship I had with a monkey (named Monkey) at Enkosini 3 years ago, but boy did it linger!

We have met up with several troops of baboons at different camp sites along the way, with our ever-vigilant leader saying things like "And don't leave anything anywhere because the baboons will attack you-- and that's a lot of paperwork for me." I tend to think of these as "Oh right, I'm in Africa!" moments; though my favourite is still from our second bush camp "When you're setting up your tents, be sure to leave room for the elephants to get through. Because they won't leave room for you." We've had similar warnings about hippos (hippos are NOISY!) and crocodiles as well.

The monkeys at the Waterfront (our campsite in Livingston... Zambia) are vervets, and deceptively cute, in a cheeky, conniving sort of way. They hang out (literally) in the trees around our truck, and occasionally jump down onto the table (or the washline, or the windshield) and steal something. This morning I nearly fell off my folding stool (which is easy to do) laughing as the requisite universally-disliked person on the trip started screaming like a banshee and running around the base of grabbed a sling shot and started running around the base of a tree, screaming like a banshee, shaking her fist (the sling shot was locked in the truck) at a monkey who had stolen a banana from the fruit bowl.

S: Ya, you'd better run-- climb up into the branches, why don't you, I'll climb right up and get you!

For once I was on the monkey's side.

This evening I noticed (for the first time, surprisingly) we have a sign on one of the side windows of the truck, which says "Cheeky Monkeys On Board!" I can't help but feel this is appropriate, on a number of levels.

Back out to the bush tomorrow. Back to the hippos and crocodiles. And long, long dusty drives in the back seat of our beloved Oscar (the grouch-truck), and going to bed by 9. I have mixed feelings.

But oh those stories are piling up, and if you can say one thing about me, it's that I do love a good story.

Missing you.

N.

Things I've Learned: Cape Town to Vic Falls

You know how they say "never stop learning!"? This reaches whole new levels of bitter-sweet (or at the very least ironic) truth while you're traveling. This is only a sampling, of course, and all come with stories attached. If you would like to hear one, just drop me an email... But in the mean time...

What I've Learned:

-Look out of low hanging branches.
-Rinsing something in dirty water will not make it clean.
-Toilet paper has many uses.
-Sand + Cameras = Not good bed fellows
-People will pay shocking amounts of money to have near death experiences.
-The path doesn't actually move when it gets dark; you just can't see it.
-Wet wipes. Lots of wet wipes.
-Wash your hands, who knows where they've been!
-Boys will be boys.
-Girls will be girls.
-It is possible to become used to anything.
-If you have not felt the urge to go to the bathroom after 24 hours, you're dehydrated. Drink more water!
-When taking down a tent, be sure to roll it away from you, so the creepy crawlies underneath can run in the other direction.
-It's easy to focus so much on the photograph you forget the experience.
-One's success at pool depends entirely on how many drinks they you have had.
-Hygiene is relative.
-Head phones on means don't talk to me.
-Bandanas may hide all manner of sins.
-You make fun of the person with the first aid kit, but you still "borrow" band aids.
-People with smoke allergies should not sit down wind of the fire.
-Head lamps are amazing.
-You can tell a great deal about someone based on their choice of music.
-Large groups rarely feel self-concious; it's okay to look stupid as long as you're not the only one doing it.
-The item you are looking for will always be at the bottom of the bag.
-Someone else's picture will always be better than yours. Take pictures anyway.
-Almost anything that can be eaten hot can be eaten cold.
-Absence makes the heart obsess.
-Not everything that can go wrong will go wrong; there are always more things that can go wrong.
-You will never like your nickname, but it's better than not having one.
-If you pay in US dollars they will raise the price. If you change to local currency they will raise the exchange rate. If you pay with credit card they add processing fees, and if you pay with traveler's cheques-- HA! Unfortunately, you will need money.
-Some people are not meant to tan evenly. Most of them are British.
-Small things can cause big problems (small cuts, splinters, insects...).
-We all get homesick for different things.
-Hell may be other people, but people need people.
-There is an order to everything (dare I say it: the circle of life?).

N.