I thought it'd be appropriate to end my journey and travelog with a video clip from the beginning of my journey.
Kids at lunch
Originally uploaded by nantron
Thursday, October 21, 2004
Goodbye sweetheart, goodbye.
I sent S. and K. care packages today. I hope it gets to them in the orphanage. I packed little photo albums of pictures from camp, and framed one for each of them. I also added little stuffed lions - for them to be brave and strong through their HIV. I gave S. my watch, since he loved it so much with its indiglo backlight, and I gave K. a copy of James and the Giant Peach - the book I was reading them as a bedtime story at camp. It gave me a bit of closure as I sent the gifts off at the post office. I feel better that they'll have a little something of camp to have. And at the same time - I feel awfully mom-like, which is terrifying.
I thought it'd be appropriate to end my journey and travelog with a video clip from the beginning of my journey.
Kids at lunch
Originally uploaded by nantron
I thought it'd be appropriate to end my journey and travelog with a video clip from the beginning of my journey.
Kids at lunch
Originally uploaded by nantron
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
I'm getting the feeling that I will need a holiday once every two years or so just to keep myself going. A good holiday. For a month. I will choose my countries based on whether the exchange rate is in my favor. And I will go alone.
It's been about 24 hours since I've been home. The jet lag surprisingly hasn't hit me that hard yet. I've been going to bed at normal hours (circa 10 pm, 4 am african time) and waking up early (6 am, 12 pm african time). The hardest part has been reconciling Nancy now with Nancy then.
I've been wearing the same 6 shirts for the past month, and now my closet suddenly seems preposterously ridiculous.
I bought this cheap little 7 dollar blue rubber watch for the trip. It was convenient because I could swim with it and take it into the shower. I didn't realize it would make me an idol among the campers, who were fascinated by the blue backlight at night. When I returned home, I saw my regular seiko watch and diamond ring sitting on my dresser where I'd left them. I put them back on, and my hand looked so foreign to me that I took them back off again. They're still sitting on my dresser and the blue rubber watch is back on my wrist.
Not just that, but my collection of high heeled pumps and winter boots looked bizarre as well. As if they belonged to a different world. Did I really used to derive joy from these things? Was it only because there was so little to derive joy from in my former life?
After all, being in Africa was the happiest I've been in years. Travelling, freewheeling, AND male attention (somewhat unwanted) - even despite my baby mullet due to 5 weeks of unchecked hair growth. What more could a girl ask for? I'm generally miserable when I'm in the States. Not that it's all -that- bad. Misery makes great fodder for sarcasm and jokes. But its hard to fill that void when you live in a culture of materialism. So you fill it with the only thing available to you - materials. To think, buying a new shirt used to make me happy. Why? Because it would make me feel prettier. Jesus, who cares.
Am I a changed person? I hesitate to make such a leap. Perhaps I am for the short-term, but the long-term remains to be seen. After all, it's hard to fill that void that used to have 10 year old African boys who scream "MAMMY!" and then cling to your waist. You know, the ones who cry in their sleep on the last night of camp and then crawl in to sleep on you, patting your face sleepily and mumbling "Me love you." I don't know what's going to fill that void now. I do know that I used to cram it with other things. I do know that when I was corporate, the void became so yawning and gaping that no amount of alcohol or pretty clothes could fill it. I'm waiting to see.
I start my new job on Monday.
It's been about 24 hours since I've been home. The jet lag surprisingly hasn't hit me that hard yet. I've been going to bed at normal hours (circa 10 pm, 4 am african time) and waking up early (6 am, 12 pm african time). The hardest part has been reconciling Nancy now with Nancy then.
I've been wearing the same 6 shirts for the past month, and now my closet suddenly seems preposterously ridiculous.
I bought this cheap little 7 dollar blue rubber watch for the trip. It was convenient because I could swim with it and take it into the shower. I didn't realize it would make me an idol among the campers, who were fascinated by the blue backlight at night. When I returned home, I saw my regular seiko watch and diamond ring sitting on my dresser where I'd left them. I put them back on, and my hand looked so foreign to me that I took them back off again. They're still sitting on my dresser and the blue rubber watch is back on my wrist.
Not just that, but my collection of high heeled pumps and winter boots looked bizarre as well. As if they belonged to a different world. Did I really used to derive joy from these things? Was it only because there was so little to derive joy from in my former life?
After all, being in Africa was the happiest I've been in years. Travelling, freewheeling, AND male attention (somewhat unwanted) - even despite my baby mullet due to 5 weeks of unchecked hair growth. What more could a girl ask for? I'm generally miserable when I'm in the States. Not that it's all -that- bad. Misery makes great fodder for sarcasm and jokes. But its hard to fill that void when you live in a culture of materialism. So you fill it with the only thing available to you - materials. To think, buying a new shirt used to make me happy. Why? Because it would make me feel prettier. Jesus, who cares.
Am I a changed person? I hesitate to make such a leap. Perhaps I am for the short-term, but the long-term remains to be seen. After all, it's hard to fill that void that used to have 10 year old African boys who scream "MAMMY!" and then cling to your waist. You know, the ones who cry in their sleep on the last night of camp and then crawl in to sleep on you, patting your face sleepily and mumbling "Me love you." I don't know what's going to fill that void now. I do know that I used to cram it with other things. I do know that when I was corporate, the void became so yawning and gaping that no amount of alcohol or pretty clothes could fill it. I'm waiting to see.
I start my new job on Monday.
Monday, October 18, 2004
Post-trip one-offs.
*Though I didn't see where the workout was when I was learning how to surf (it deceivingly feels like you're doing nothing), I definitely felt it in my shoulders and arms the next day. And the day after. And that day after that.
*I don't know what possesses people to bring small children onto long international flights. Or on holiday at all for that matter. Despite my resolution to travel somewhere every two years, I think I will have to give up any notions of a real holiday for at least 10-15 years when I have children. I hope I'm still interesting then, especially as children have an inconvenient habit of swallowing up all remnants of who you are, leaving behind a frazzled outline of a soccer mom.
*Africa is an interesting study in contrasts. Though maleness is so obvious here, its juxtaposed by a widespread affinity for hobbies that would be considered un-masculine in the Western world. Like poetry. Almost everyone here is a poet, and a pretty decent one at that. Does poetry, like rhythm and dance, just run in the blood here? Rap artists are predominantly black, and a surprisingly large percentage of the camp counselors wrote good poetry. One of them actually stopped writing poetry because it made him cry. Or is it just because they live in harsher conditions and thus have more to write about? After all, middle class suburbia isn't exactly good material. Hardly stirring.
*Why is it that flights returning are so much more bearable than flights going?
*30 minutes to landing. I tried hard to stay awake in order to combat jet lag, but failed miserably.
*I don't know what possesses people to bring small children onto long international flights. Or on holiday at all for that matter. Despite my resolution to travel somewhere every two years, I think I will have to give up any notions of a real holiday for at least 10-15 years when I have children. I hope I'm still interesting then, especially as children have an inconvenient habit of swallowing up all remnants of who you are, leaving behind a frazzled outline of a soccer mom.
*Africa is an interesting study in contrasts. Though maleness is so obvious here, its juxtaposed by a widespread affinity for hobbies that would be considered un-masculine in the Western world. Like poetry. Almost everyone here is a poet, and a pretty decent one at that. Does poetry, like rhythm and dance, just run in the blood here? Rap artists are predominantly black, and a surprisingly large percentage of the camp counselors wrote good poetry. One of them actually stopped writing poetry because it made him cry. Or is it just because they live in harsher conditions and thus have more to write about? After all, middle class suburbia isn't exactly good material. Hardly stirring.
*Why is it that flights returning are so much more bearable than flights going?
*30 minutes to landing. I tried hard to stay awake in order to combat jet lag, but failed miserably.
Sunday, October 17, 2004
Finito.
So my holiday is officially ended. I've spent the past 6 hours sitting in London's Heathrow airport waiting for my connecting flight back to the U.S. I met a young German cultural anthropologist named Sven on the plane who told me of the ins and outs of the Indian community that is growing in South Africa.
It's funny how quickly one slides back to Western ways. I've only left Africa for half a day and I already find myself looking around and wondering why no one is smiling at each other. I miss the friendly backpacking ways and all the excitement of life on the road. I miss the spirit of travelling. And I don't mean tourist-ing or business commuting, but truly travelling. The spirit that pervades you with its lifestyle and wraps you swinging into it, swaddled and rocked while you giggle. Already, the memory of Africa is fading fast. Even my souvenirs, that I coveted 24 hours ago like I would've coveted a new pair of shoes in my former life, seem foreign to me. All my efforts to grasp the feeling of travelling Africa are flouted as it slips through my fingers. It just feels so far away already within the context of Heathrow airport. And yet somehow, I feel as if I've been made whole by the experience. That any damage or bitterness remaining from my corporate days has been wiped away. Somehow, travelling Africa has made me more confident.
And despite my instinctive inclination to, I will not mourn Africa when I get home. I will not mope and shut myself in my room to steep in the memories, hoping to cling on to the vestiges. Because it's a part of me, and I will celebrate it. I will be joyous when I return home because my parents, who love me so much and allowed me to go despite their worries, deserve no less. And because I did miss them dearly.
I've come to terms with a few things on my trip. That you don't have to be beautiful as long as people believe you are. I learned that perhaps my nerdy high school days are over, despite my proclivity to cling to them. I can be generally well-liked by the public, and am not just a "niche" interest as I had previously assumed. Like a Star Trek fetish. I learned that 10 year old S. African boys know entirely too much about sex, and that the Queen of England should not use her famous wave in Soweto. I learned how to say "Sho sho!" like the locals and "Brilliant!" like the Brits. I learned how to take a compliment gracefully. I suppose what this trip has ultimately done is restore my faith in the world. That there really are beautiful things out there worth trying for. That I -can- make a difference in this world seemingly dominated by materialism and money. And that not everyone is out to get you. This trip has cured me, however temporarily and hopefully permanently, of the jadedness that permeates my peers. It makes me look at the world with bright eyes again and believe that I really have a future that will be great and exciting. That maybe I really can be someone. And not just think it or say it aloud to friends to convince myself, but truly believe it.
It's funny how quickly one slides back to Western ways. I've only left Africa for half a day and I already find myself looking around and wondering why no one is smiling at each other. I miss the friendly backpacking ways and all the excitement of life on the road. I miss the spirit of travelling. And I don't mean tourist-ing or business commuting, but truly travelling. The spirit that pervades you with its lifestyle and wraps you swinging into it, swaddled and rocked while you giggle. Already, the memory of Africa is fading fast. Even my souvenirs, that I coveted 24 hours ago like I would've coveted a new pair of shoes in my former life, seem foreign to me. All my efforts to grasp the feeling of travelling Africa are flouted as it slips through my fingers. It just feels so far away already within the context of Heathrow airport. And yet somehow, I feel as if I've been made whole by the experience. That any damage or bitterness remaining from my corporate days has been wiped away. Somehow, travelling Africa has made me more confident.
And despite my instinctive inclination to, I will not mourn Africa when I get home. I will not mope and shut myself in my room to steep in the memories, hoping to cling on to the vestiges. Because it's a part of me, and I will celebrate it. I will be joyous when I return home because my parents, who love me so much and allowed me to go despite their worries, deserve no less. And because I did miss them dearly.
I've come to terms with a few things on my trip. That you don't have to be beautiful as long as people believe you are. I learned that perhaps my nerdy high school days are over, despite my proclivity to cling to them. I can be generally well-liked by the public, and am not just a "niche" interest as I had previously assumed. Like a Star Trek fetish. I learned that 10 year old S. African boys know entirely too much about sex, and that the Queen of England should not use her famous wave in Soweto. I learned how to say "Sho sho!" like the locals and "Brilliant!" like the Brits. I learned how to take a compliment gracefully. I suppose what this trip has ultimately done is restore my faith in the world. That there really are beautiful things out there worth trying for. That I -can- make a difference in this world seemingly dominated by materialism and money. And that not everyone is out to get you. This trip has cured me, however temporarily and hopefully permanently, of the jadedness that permeates my peers. It makes me look at the world with bright eyes again and believe that I really have a future that will be great and exciting. That maybe I really can be someone. And not just think it or say it aloud to friends to convince myself, but truly believe it.
Thursday, October 14, 2004
I went sea kayaking today, and saw whales and dolphins. I don't know what I was expecting - Shamu and Flipper? But they were disappointing. The dolphins swam and ignored us. The whales looked like rocks. But since I'm at the famous Jeffrey's Bay, I decided to take some surfing lessons. I was basically beaten to a pulp by my own surfboard.
 |  |
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
 |
Knysna Elephant Park.
 You'd think feeding elephants would be a little cleaner, but I came out of it with an empty bucket and a hand completely covered in elephant nose mucus. |  Open wide. Harry the Elephant is showing us his teeth. Later, I got to stick my entire hand in his mouth. |
 Fresh from the oven. You can see the shine and practically the steam rising from this elephant poo. |  And here are the babies, eating the poo. Apparently, babies are born without a lot of the enzymes needed to digest food, so they eat portions of the adult poo to get those enzymes. In addition, elephants only digest 40% of their food, so there's quite a bit of nutrition left in the droppings. |
Tuesday, October 12, 2004
The poverty here is equally in-your-face. Shacks line the highways in a way that would never happen in the U.S. Here, we hide our poor, pushing them into out-of-the-way neighborhoods so we can ignore them. Ironically enough, I've seen very few homeless people here despite the poverty level. I suppose if you're allowed to build your own shack wherever you want, you're also less likely to be on the street corner huddled in a doorway. After all, it's a natural animal instinct to find shelter for the night.
I've been riding the Baz Bus, a backpacker hop-on-hop-off bus that's pretty convenient, but a tad on the pricey side if you ask me. It was an 8 hour ride from Capetown to Plett Bay. I found Capetown to have a distinct Western flavor to it that I'm not sure I like. You can see it in the people staying at the hostels. They're not really travellers per se, but more tourists - yuppie tourists. They were much more stylish than the people I was used to in Lesotho. The girls had obviously packed a few pairs of shoes in addition to hair dryers and curling irons, and all of David Beckam's past 5 hairdo's were represented among the boys. It's like Africa Lite. Complete with Mcdonald's and strip malls, just like the U.S. The quality of the crafts down here are also lesser than what I've seen up north in Johannesburg, and they're pricier. They can be found in Western style malls, right alongside the Body Shop and Guess. I'd recommend future travellers to buy their souvenirs in Joburg and the surrounding area. I did buy a painted ostrich egg for my parents that cost entirely too much. Now I only have to pack it around for my last week and hope that either 1) it doesn't break or 2) I don't lose it by leaving it behind somewhere like I left my glasses behind in Lesotho, my guidebook behind in Nelspruit, and my hat behind in a minibus taxi. I've taken less and less photos as my holiday has worn on, I think because I feel more and more at home, so things seem more everyday and normal.
My MCAT scores are supposed to come out soon. Last night was filled with nightmares about it. I dreamed that I got my MCAT scores but couldn't make heads or tails out of the score sheet. It looked like I scored a 19 in Verbal, which made no sense because the highest possible score is a 15. I also kept having dreams about my campers. Happy dreams in which they lived with me in a house and we were taking a walk outside.
 For some reason, the lady at this church thought I hitchhiked my way from Capetown to Plett Bay (8 hours). I looked down at myself, did I really look like the hitchhiking sort? To my own eyes, I looked normal and conservatively dressed. But perhaps she saw my inner wild side. |  I went souvenir shopping at the Global Village in Plett Bay. There were these beautiful chess sets for sale for these extraordinarily low prices, but I couldn't see how I'd fit them into my backpack =(. |
Sunday, October 10, 2004
Capetown.
The flight from Jo'burg to Capetown ran on "African" time - well over the 1.5 hours it should've taken. I've been putting nothing but trash into my body for the past few weeks. My diet content and timetable is generally crazy and unpredictable, with only a few unwavering components - a bar of chocolate a day and a bag of Doritos or Simba (the S. African version of Lay's/Ruffles). Capetown's much more diverse than Jo'burg. I even saw an Asian family walk by and they looked so foreign that I stared in them in curiosity before I snapped myself back to the fact that I'm Asian too. Is this how foreign I looked to people up in Jo'burg?
As this is my last week in South Africa, I'm trying to plan out my itinerary. I'm going to make my way up to Port Elizabeth along the Garden Route and fly from Port Elizabeth (PE) back to Jo'burg for my flight back to the U.S. I'm starting to realize that I'm not going to have time to do everything. If I only had one more week... But I suppose that's how it always is. Tour of the winelands and Table Mountain made the cut though, as well as the Green Square Crafts Market. I've started collecting curios since I'm leaving soon. I negotiated a great wooden hippo from 150R down to 90R. I was extremely proud, until I got home and one of his legs promptly fell off. I suppose I got what I paid for. But it's nothing a bit of super glue can't fix.
As this is my last week in South Africa, I'm trying to plan out my itinerary. I'm going to make my way up to Port Elizabeth along the Garden Route and fly from Port Elizabeth (PE) back to Jo'burg for my flight back to the U.S. I'm starting to realize that I'm not going to have time to do everything. If I only had one more week... But I suppose that's how it always is. Tour of the winelands and Table Mountain made the cut though, as well as the Green Square Crafts Market. I've started collecting curios since I'm leaving soon. I negotiated a great wooden hippo from 150R down to 90R. I was extremely proud, until I got home and one of his legs promptly fell off. I suppose I got what I paid for. But it's nothing a bit of super glue can't fix.
 [Single Berry Muffin] I splurged and bought a muffin at the airport. I've been packing arouund peanut butter and jelly in an effort to save money. Little did I realize that a "blueberry muffin" in South Africa means that I only get one blueberry. |  Believe it or not, this little guy's closest living relative is the elephant. Living on table mountain, the "dassie" lives primarily by begging me for food when it hears the crinkling of my sandwich bag. |  The views from Table Mountain were just phenomenal. One word of advice though: Regardless of how hot it is, bring warm clothing when you go up the mountain. The views would have been much more pleasant if I wasn't at risk of catching hypothermia. |
Thursday, October 07, 2004
Lesotho (Leh-soo-too, the country) is filled with Basotho (Bah-soo-too, the people), which is comprised of many Masotho (Mah-soo-too, singular form of Basotho).
Pony trekking in the Lesotho mountains
Morning.
The altitude here makes me want to pee all the time. I got up three times in the night to urinate, and got lost coming back on the third time. Partly because it was so dark outside (no electricity), partly because all the huts look the same, but mostly becuase I didn't have my glasses on. It gets pretty cold here, but my Basotho hut surprisingly holds the heat pretty well. There's a distinct temperature difference when I enter the hut. Here, the people are building a new hut. You can see that the frame is made from branches, and the walls are just mud and rocks.
Later.
I met a Brit gal traveling on her own and decided to take a pony trek together. A German couple, Petra and Rainier, decided to join us as well. For the 6 hour pony trek (which would take us by the waterfalls), we had to bring a fleece, rain gear, and lunch. I ended up being very very grateful for having the fleece. The temperatures change on whim in the mountains. By chance, I ended up with saddle bag #9. Nice, eh? I took most of the pony trek photos from the back of a trotting horse. So apologies for the lack of composition and centering in some of the pictures.
Here is our pony trek guide and my horse, named "Lesotho", though oddly enough, all of the horses seemed to be named that. My suspicion is that all the horses had South Sutu names that they knew we'd never be able to pronounce. As is evident from the photo, my horse was a particularly cheeky one.
One of the first things we rode by was a Lesotho school. Since it was so early in the morning, the children are outside playing in the schoolyard. Can you imagine going to school with a backdrop like this?
This is one of our guides to the waterfall. The pony trek guide brought us to a location where the boy was waiting for us. We dismounted and he led us to the waterfall. You can see that he's wearing hand-me-downs. The standard rate is 10R per hour (~$1.50 USD). The walk to the waterfall was only half an hour, but we gave him 10R anyways. At the market, you can buy 12 apples for 1R.
My last night in Malealea. The nights here are very cold. I'm grateful for the fleece and down vest I brought from home. The Basotho hat and "Malealea" that I requested be embroidered on my new wool cap turned out a bit gaudier than expected. The Basotho hat embroidery was fine, but the Malealea spelled out in metallic beads was a bit too bling-bling for me. No matter. I wore it regardless because it kept my ears warm. This here is where I lay my head down to sleep.
This is my misguided attempt at snapping a shot of the stars. I've never seen such a beautiful night sky and I've never before wished so much that I could have extended exposure on my little p&s digicam. So many so many stars. It makes me think that perhaps the Basotho are richer than they seem. Lesotho apparently has an even higher rate of HIV infection than South Africa. Swaziland has the highest, then Botswana, then Lesotho, and then South Africa. Like most African countries, the Basotho deny that there's a problem, no one talks about it, and no one gets tested. In South Africa, 1 in 4 is HIV+, and 1200 people are buried every weekend.
The altitude here makes me want to pee all the time. I got up three times in the night to urinate, and got lost coming back on the third time. Partly because it was so dark outside (no electricity), partly because all the huts look the same, but mostly becuase I didn't have my glasses on. It gets pretty cold here, but my Basotho hut surprisingly holds the heat pretty well. There's a distinct temperature difference when I enter the hut. Here, the people are building a new hut. You can see that the frame is made from branches, and the walls are just mud and rocks.
I met a Brit gal traveling on her own and decided to take a pony trek together. A German couple, Petra and Rainier, decided to join us as well. For the 6 hour pony trek (which would take us by the waterfalls), we had to bring a fleece, rain gear, and lunch. I ended up being very very grateful for having the fleece. The temperatures change on whim in the mountains. By chance, I ended up with saddle bag #9. Nice, eh? I took most of the pony trek photos from the back of a trotting horse. So apologies for the lack of composition and centering in some of the pictures.
Here is our pony trek guide and my horse, named "Lesotho", though oddly enough, all of the horses seemed to be named that. My suspicion is that all the horses had South Sutu names that they knew we'd never be able to pronounce. As is evident from the photo, my horse was a particularly cheeky one.
One of the first things we rode by was a Lesotho school. Since it was so early in the morning, the children are outside playing in the schoolyard. Can you imagine going to school with a backdrop like this?
This is one of our guides to the waterfall. The pony trek guide brought us to a location where the boy was waiting for us. We dismounted and he led us to the waterfall. You can see that he's wearing hand-me-downs. The standard rate is 10R per hour (~$1.50 USD). The walk to the waterfall was only half an hour, but we gave him 10R anyways. At the market, you can buy 12 apples for 1R.
My last night in Malealea. The nights here are very cold. I'm grateful for the fleece and down vest I brought from home. The Basotho hat and "Malealea" that I requested be embroidered on my new wool cap turned out a bit gaudier than expected. The Basotho hat embroidery was fine, but the Malealea spelled out in metallic beads was a bit too bling-bling for me. No matter. I wore it regardless because it kept my ears warm. This here is where I lay my head down to sleep.
This is my misguided attempt at snapping a shot of the stars. I've never seen such a beautiful night sky and I've never before wished so much that I could have extended exposure on my little p&s digicam. So many so many stars. It makes me think that perhaps the Basotho are richer than they seem. Lesotho apparently has an even higher rate of HIV infection than South Africa. Swaziland has the highest, then Botswana, then Lesotho, and then South Africa. Like most African countries, the Basotho deny that there's a problem, no one talks about it, and no one gets tested. In South Africa, 1 in 4 is HIV+, and 1200 people are buried every weekend.
Wednesday, October 06, 2004
More from the Travelog.
"Wayfarer. Pause and look upon a gateway of Paradise."
(Sadly, the bus did not pause long enough for me to get a good shot of this
plaque.)
10 am - Maseru So, in the U.S., we joke about being on "Asian" time, which is usually a good half hour to a full hour late. "African" time is no joke. No one here wears watches. Buses don't run on any sort of timetable. They sit at a stop until the bus fills up before they leave, regardless of whether that's 5 minutes or 5 hours from now. I'm in Maseru, waiting for the Malealea bus to leave. I've bought a new hat to replace the one I lost in Ladybrand, but it most definitely does not measure up to my old one. I'm said I lost it =(. But it was really only a matter of time as I'd lost it and refound it multiple times already.
Being a female travelling alone has made me a curiosity, not even mentioning that I'm a minority from America. Being from America is a fact that's difficult for a lot of Africans to grasp. They insist I must be returning to China when I leave, not to the U.S. My response is usually to tell them that I've never even been to China. Then I ask them whether they consider Puff Daddy and Beyonce to be African (Beyonce has almost cult status here). After all, they're black, aren't they? The amount of English spoken in Lesotho is marginal since it's only taught after fifth grade, and many of the people here cannot afford to send their children to school. I find myself resorting to charades very often, though charading "bottled water" is hard. I kept making the motion of drinking from a bottle, and they kept taking me to beer. The water in Lesotho is considered unfit for drinking. This means that after I bought my apple at a street stall, I was posed with the questionable dilemma of whether I should wash my apple. Do I wash it in potentially dangerous water? Or do I eat the street apple unwashed? I decided to take my risks and eat it unwashed. Mmmm... pesticides. Though I bet they don't use pesticides here. I did buy meat off a street market stall though. Again. I hesitated, but then my growling stomach overrode my common sense. So far, my guts haven't even protested. Funny, since nearly everything upsets my stomach in the States. No signs of even traveler's diarrhea so far. My skin has also cleared up.
Later. 3 pm. Malealea
Whoever said Malealea is only an hour away from Maseru is mad. It may only be 80-some kilometers away, but with the minibuses running the way they do, it takes 2 hours. We didn't leave Maseru until noon. I did not arrive at Malealea Lodge until 2:30 pm. The country looks very dry and dusty, and the sky is threatening to rain. I passed on a 2-hour hike to the gorge as the owners told me the view would not be visible in this mistiness. The minibus ride was a bit grueling. The van was so packed that there were people standing in the aisles. A young girl gave me her baby as she tried to maneuver her bags into the space beside me, but then she never took her baby back. She fed her baby as it sat in my lap, giving it cookies and juice, and showering me with crumbs. More concerning to me was whether this baby was toilet-trained. It certainly wasn't wearing a diaper. The only word I know how to say in Zulu is "I don't know" (very useful phrase. When someone foreign is angry at you, knowing how to say "I love you" or "F you!" in their mother tongue will not help). "Toilet trained" is a bit advanced for me, and it was evident the girl didn't speak English. I didn't have too much time to worry about it though, as the baby soon fell asleep against me, and I fell asleep against the window, crumbs and all.
As taboo as this sounds, after the minibus ride, I was indescribably relieved to see Malealea Lodge with its European lodgers and Beatles playing in the bar. All the comforts of the Western world - postcards, tea, stamps, real beds, but a creepy crawly bathroom. No matter. What people seem to always fail to describe in their high falutin' efforts to be a non-touristy world traveller is the automatic comfort found in being around other tourists. The safety in knowing that they'll share good deals with you instead of referring you to their friend who will then rip you off. Even though the guests speak European languages that I don't understand, it's nice to sit in the corner and write and blend in instead of being a curiosity always.
I bought a pink hat, a christmas decoration, and a handbag from the Malealea Handicraft Arts Center. I made a custom request and turned my hat in to be modified with an embroidered Basotho hat and the word "Malealea" on it. I hope I don't end up hating it. Chocolate is quite possibly the least productive thing to bring with you in Africa. I've already lost 2 Cadbury chocolate bars to the heat inside the minivans. My Mint Crisp is nothing but a melted blob at this point. Funny how chocolate is the universal word. I went to the gate and asked where I could find chocolate. They pointed me to the shack store. Sure enough, they don't stock eggs, but they do stock chocolate. The little kids run right up to you here and ask you where you're going. I'm still displeased with my Lonely Planet guide.
"Car wash. Find chocolate at the gate."
10 pm.
Malealea Lodge turns its electricity generators off at 10 pm, so I'm writing this by candlelight. It all feels very Little House On The Prairie as I lie in my trundle bed with my candle holder on the wooden table beside me. Except I'm in Africa. The majority of the clientele here are tour groups, but Mick (the hostel owner) says it comes in waves. I seem to have missed the backpacker wave. Its kinda nice though because this means I talked more to the local boys around the village and to the South African blokes who are the tour operators. The lodge invites the local village choir and band to play for the guests every evening. The band especially was great. I got to drum a bit with them. Their instruments are made of tin and metal gut, and their drum skin is just black rubber.
Tomorrow is my pony trek. I await with great trepidation and excitement. Dinner was fabulous. Am not looking forward to minibus ride back to Jo'burg.
 |  Originally uploaded by nantron |
041006_14malealeachoir
Originally uploaded by nantron
Tuesday, October 05, 2004
The Rules.
9 am.
I've broken the cardinal rule of travelers. "Never eat street food." I ate chicken gizzards yesterday, off the streets of Kliptown in Soweto. I was hanging out with my co-counselor N and she bought me some. I could hardly say no. But I seem to have made it through the night with my intestines in one piece. I stayed the night in Soweto after touring Kliptown. A few of the kids from camp recognized me in the tour bus and waved at me from the street. One of them was still wearing his camp shirt. Judging by the holes and dirt on it, you could tell he hadn't taken it off since camp ended. Kliptown is, quite literally, a shantytown. The houses are made of corrugated metal and tin, and everyone shares a few outdoor taps. There's communal porta-potties as well, and most of the children run around dirty and barefoot. It was surprisingly small, less than one square mile of shacks. The associate director of the community center said that there's usually one grandma taking care of 12 children because the parents have been killed by AIDS. N's sister is HIV+. She announced it to me this morning. Death seems to be a familiar thing to South Africans. N's other older sister passed away in April, of a "headache". The death certificate lists the cause of death as "natural causes." No 31 year old otherwise-healthy woman dies of natural causes. She left behind a son that N and her remaining 2 sisters take care of. His father had been killed a few years ago by a carjacker who shot him at close range while his 9 month old baby watched in the backseat. [Photo: Kliptown.]
N's house in Soweto is worlds above the shacks. She lives in a nice safe neighborhood in what seemingly is a middle class home. But she shares her full sized bed with her sister and her nephew, and her brother sleeps on the futon in the same room. There is no running water inside the house. Only a tap in the backyard and a flushing toilet outdoors. No shower or bath facilities exist. Not even a sink in the kitchen. They heat up water in a kettle every morning and sponge bathe themselves. They live simply, but well. The men here are -aggressive-. The word "love" also seems to be thrown around lightly here. I've gotten a few marriage proposals. There is this South African belief that having sex with a younger man will youthen your appearance. It's also a South African belief that if you have big breasts, it's because you've had a lot of sex. [Photo: N dressing her nephew for school.]
I've been sitting in a minibus for the past hour, waiting for it to fill up so I can go to Lesotho (pronounced Leh-soo-too). That's the other travel rule I'm breaking. I'm traveling by local minibus taxi alone. But I'm in a taxi filled mainly with women, so I'm not feeling too endangered. I don't anticipate the ride being pleasant though as the seats have no padding, the vehicle doesn't seem like it has great suspension, it's a 6 hour long ride, and its cramped. I'm starting to doubt the wisdom of this choice. But Lesotho is so remote that no trains or buses run there. This is my only option.
[Photo: Friends from the minibus - Kefuoe, Lebohang, and Motselisi.]
Later. 10 am.
Been here waiting since 8 am. Seriously considered asking for my money back in an attempt to go to Jo'Burg to take Greyhound to Bloemfontein, and then take minibus from there, but realized that greyhound would not be leaving till 4 pm. That and, I couldn't get my money back. The passengers have started chatting though. I suppose this is the "true" experience since I'm with the locals and I should be more appreciative. Patience is not the ability to wait. It is the ability to wait with a good attitude. I, obviously, am not patient.
[Photo: I watched this view for 3 hours as I waited inside the taxi.]
Even later. 7 pm.
After the most horrifying ride in which the minibus broke down twice and we had to switch taxis in Ladybrand (where I lost my hat), I'm finally in Lesotho. I would not recommend traveling long distances by minibus for any backpacker. The presence of a backpack alone makes it a struggle. I sat for 8 hours squashed into the corner with my backpack in my lap. Then I had to sacrifice the water in my Nalgene to help cool down the radiator in the overheated vehicle.
[Photo: Broke-down palace.]
They dropped us off outside of Lesotho and I had to get off and walk across the border with my backpack. I felt Mexican. I arrived in Maseru (the capital of Lesotho) on foot and was planning on going straight to Malealea where the lodge is, but it was too late for the minibus taxis to be running. A lady offered to take me in her private car for 300R, but I balked considering that a minibus in the morning would be 17R. Instead I checked into Lakeside Hotel, a seedy little place. Do not stay here. Ever. First of all, there is no lake. Secondly, the loud pounding music coming from next door doesn't particularly assure me of the hotel's clientele. I suppose I'll venture out and check the dinner menu.
[Photo: Border between Lesotho and South Africa.]
9 pm.
I don't know why I was so shocked to see a small roach in the bathroom, but I was. My penchant for chocolate has done me in as my stash melted all over the inside of my bag. My sleeping bag liner caught the brunt of it. Whereas falling asleep enveloped in the smell of chocolate sounds heavenly, I realized it would attract roaches by the hundreds. So far, my original idea of losing weight in Africa hasn't happened. The daily chocolate bars may be why.
10 pm.
My boogers are black. Am still hating my new Lonely Planet guide and intensely desiring my old Let's Go guide.
12:30 am.
Someone is rattling the doorknob of my room. Am hoping desperately that it's a drunken person who is trying to get into the wrong room. Am scared =(.
I've broken the cardinal rule of travelers. "Never eat street food." I ate chicken gizzards yesterday, off the streets of Kliptown in Soweto. I was hanging out with my co-counselor N and she bought me some. I could hardly say no. But I seem to have made it through the night with my intestines in one piece. I stayed the night in Soweto after touring Kliptown. A few of the kids from camp recognized me in the tour bus and waved at me from the street. One of them was still wearing his camp shirt. Judging by the holes and dirt on it, you could tell he hadn't taken it off since camp ended. Kliptown is, quite literally, a shantytown. The houses are made of corrugated metal and tin, and everyone shares a few outdoor taps. There's communal porta-potties as well, and most of the children run around dirty and barefoot. It was surprisingly small, less than one square mile of shacks. The associate director of the community center said that there's usually one grandma taking care of 12 children because the parents have been killed by AIDS. N's sister is HIV+. She announced it to me this morning. Death seems to be a familiar thing to South Africans. N's other older sister passed away in April, of a "headache". The death certificate lists the cause of death as "natural causes." No 31 year old otherwise-healthy woman dies of natural causes. She left behind a son that N and her remaining 2 sisters take care of. His father had been killed a few years ago by a carjacker who shot him at close range while his 9 month old baby watched in the backseat. [Photo: Kliptown.]
N's house in Soweto is worlds above the shacks. She lives in a nice safe neighborhood in what seemingly is a middle class home. But she shares her full sized bed with her sister and her nephew, and her brother sleeps on the futon in the same room. There is no running water inside the house. Only a tap in the backyard and a flushing toilet outdoors. No shower or bath facilities exist. Not even a sink in the kitchen. They heat up water in a kettle every morning and sponge bathe themselves. They live simply, but well. The men here are -aggressive-. The word "love" also seems to be thrown around lightly here. I've gotten a few marriage proposals. There is this South African belief that having sex with a younger man will youthen your appearance. It's also a South African belief that if you have big breasts, it's because you've had a lot of sex. [Photo: N dressing her nephew for school.]
I've been sitting in a minibus for the past hour, waiting for it to fill up so I can go to Lesotho (pronounced Leh-soo-too). That's the other travel rule I'm breaking. I'm traveling by local minibus taxi alone. But I'm in a taxi filled mainly with women, so I'm not feeling too endangered. I don't anticipate the ride being pleasant though as the seats have no padding, the vehicle doesn't seem like it has great suspension, it's a 6 hour long ride, and its cramped. I'm starting to doubt the wisdom of this choice. But Lesotho is so remote that no trains or buses run there. This is my only option.
[Photo: Friends from the minibus - Kefuoe, Lebohang, and Motselisi.]
Later. 10 am.
Been here waiting since 8 am. Seriously considered asking for my money back in an attempt to go to Jo'Burg to take Greyhound to Bloemfontein, and then take minibus from there, but realized that greyhound would not be leaving till 4 pm. That and, I couldn't get my money back. The passengers have started chatting though. I suppose this is the "true" experience since I'm with the locals and I should be more appreciative. Patience is not the ability to wait. It is the ability to wait with a good attitude. I, obviously, am not patient.
[Photo: I watched this view for 3 hours as I waited inside the taxi.]
Even later. 7 pm.
After the most horrifying ride in which the minibus broke down twice and we had to switch taxis in Ladybrand (where I lost my hat), I'm finally in Lesotho. I would not recommend traveling long distances by minibus for any backpacker. The presence of a backpack alone makes it a struggle. I sat for 8 hours squashed into the corner with my backpack in my lap. Then I had to sacrifice the water in my Nalgene to help cool down the radiator in the overheated vehicle.
[Photo: Broke-down palace.]
They dropped us off outside of Lesotho and I had to get off and walk across the border with my backpack. I felt Mexican. I arrived in Maseru (the capital of Lesotho) on foot and was planning on going straight to Malealea where the lodge is, but it was too late for the minibus taxis to be running. A lady offered to take me in her private car for 300R, but I balked considering that a minibus in the morning would be 17R. Instead I checked into Lakeside Hotel, a seedy little place. Do not stay here. Ever. First of all, there is no lake. Secondly, the loud pounding music coming from next door doesn't particularly assure me of the hotel's clientele. I suppose I'll venture out and check the dinner menu.
[Photo: Border between Lesotho and South Africa.]
9 pm.
I don't know why I was so shocked to see a small roach in the bathroom, but I was. My penchant for chocolate has done me in as my stash melted all over the inside of my bag. My sleeping bag liner caught the brunt of it. Whereas falling asleep enveloped in the smell of chocolate sounds heavenly, I realized it would attract roaches by the hundreds. So far, my original idea of losing weight in Africa hasn't happened. The daily chocolate bars may be why.
10 pm.
My boogers are black. Am still hating my new Lonely Planet guide and intensely desiring my old Let's Go guide.
12:30 am.
Someone is rattling the doorknob of my room. Am hoping desperately that it's a drunken person who is trying to get into the wrong room. Am scared =(.
Saturday, October 02, 2004
Why do the little monsters make me love them so much it hurts.
There's something about a crying child that tugs at every maternal instinct I try to deny. S., the little monster who calls me "MAMMY!" with one breath and then refuses to make his bed with the next, cried on my shoulder last night. He told me the other day that he loved me. Or, he told me as well as a 10 year old from an orphanage in South Africa can manage. "Me love you," he announced one day when I came to take him to his medications in the morning. The HIVSA rep told me that she thinks he has ADD and a low IQ. The ADD portion I may agree with, but not the low IQ. There's something about S. that makes you love him. The sticky hugs. The cheekiness. The demands - "Kiss!" Or, as he calls them, "Boops!" He does speak broken English since its not his mother tongue, but he seems pretty eloquent in Zulu. I don't know how well he'd sit still in a class but he knew enough last night to realize that the cards we were drawing to thank the camp sponsors meant that camp was coming to a close. He drew one flower on his card forlornly (insisting on using my lap as his desk) and then fell silent. He announced "Want sleep!" and fell over like a narcoleptic. I've never seen anyone fall asleep so fast. He kept waking up with tears leaking out of his eyes and crying heaving sobs. I put him in his bed, only for him to stumble out again a few minutes later to throw his arms around me and cry tears against my neck. He fell asleep on me with one arm holding me securely around the neck and the other hand patting my face sleepily as he'd mumble repeatedly "Me love you. Me love you." It brought tears to my eyes, especially considering that he's the one I'm always dragging out of the dirt, telling him to stop fighting, no pushing, go wash your hands. And his response is always "NO!" I'm sure orphanages these days are nothing like the institutions in Little Orphan Annie, especially since S. and his brother K. seem well adjusted, but it still made me want to take both of them home with me.
I eventually put S. back into his bed when it seemed like he was sound asleep, and I tucked the rest of the kids in for their bedtimem story. Usually, because these kids are from Soweto, they insist on closing all the curtains and doors tightly before they go to sleep even though we're in rural area. I normally have to yell through the door when I read them their bedtime story. That last night though, when I read them their bedtime story as usual,
S. woke up again to climb out of bed and open the door all the way so he could see me as he was lying in bed.
I turned 24 today. At breakfast, the boys sang me happy birthday before they got on the bus. I got a little shiny-eyed as they were boarding. Today (the last day of camp), S. refused to let me hug him or touch him, scowling "NO TOUCH!" whenever I tried to even cut his food for him. But when he saw my tears, he leaned out the window of the bus and grabbed my hand, scowling "No cry!" as the bus pulled away.
For all the levels of frustration that they caused in one way or another, I was sad to see them go today. There were a lot of nice photo ops at the goodbye as the buses pulled away, but something stopped me from whipping out my camera and snapping away. Being behind the camera somehow alienates you from the situation, making you an observer and no longer a participant. Never have I wished more for a little camera behind my eyes so that I could replay their hands waving out the windows and their heads poking out. I think I would feel better knowing that they were going back to loving families, but the harsh reality is that I don't know what they're going back to. Most of my kids live in children's homes, and others live without any adult supervision - only with their siblings. While they were at camp, I at least knew that they were getting 3 meals a day, a hot shower, and were safe. I have no such assurance now that they're gone. The older boys broke my heart more than anything else. The younger ones I know will have caretakers at the children's home, but some of the older boys are returning to the street. Most of them were crying because they didn't want to leave camp. A lot of them are good kids and I can only hope that they're going to turn out okay. I'm frustrated with the English language as I feel like I can't adequately express my thoughts right now. I think it's a mixture of incoherence due to too much emotional stimulus and exhaustion. I can't help but feel like my life in the U.S. is so... soft in comparison. Cubicles. Excel sheets. Paperwork.
All I want to do right now is eat chocolate and bury myself in meaningless fashion magazines.
I eventually put S. back into his bed when it seemed like he was sound asleep, and I tucked the rest of the kids in for their bedtimem story. Usually, because these kids are from Soweto, they insist on closing all the curtains and doors tightly before they go to sleep even though we're in rural area. I normally have to yell through the door when I read them their bedtime story. That last night though, when I read them their bedtime story as usual,
I turned 24 today. At breakfast, the boys sang me happy birthday before they got on the bus. I got a little shiny-eyed as they were boarding. Today (the last day of camp), S. refused to let me hug him or touch him, scowling "NO TOUCH!" whenever I tried to even cut his food for him. But when he saw my tears, he leaned out the window of the bus and grabbed my hand, scowling "No cry!" as the bus pulled away.
For all the levels of frustration that they caused in one way or another, I was sad to see them go today. There were a lot of nice photo ops at the goodbye as the buses pulled away, but something stopped me from whipping out my camera and snapping away. Being behind the camera somehow alienates you from the situation, making you an observer and no longer a participant. Never have I wished more for a little camera behind my eyes so that I could replay their hands waving out the windows and their heads poking out. I think I would feel better knowing that they were going back to loving families, but the harsh reality is that I don't know what they're going back to. Most of my kids live in children's homes, and others live without any adult supervision - only with their siblings. While they were at camp, I at least knew that they were getting 3 meals a day, a hot shower, and were safe. I have no such assurance now that they're gone. The older boys broke my heart more than anything else. The younger ones I know will have caretakers at the children's home, but some of the older boys are returning to the street. Most of them were crying because they didn't want to leave camp. A lot of them are good kids and I can only hope that they're going to turn out okay. I'm frustrated with the English language as I feel like I can't adequately express my thoughts right now. I think it's a mixture of incoherence due to too much emotional stimulus and exhaustion. I can't help but feel like my life in the U.S. is so... soft in comparison. Cubicles. Excel sheets. Paperwork.
All I want to do right now is eat chocolate and bury myself in meaningless fashion magazines.
041002_08goodbye Originally uploaded by nantron |
Tuesday, September 28, 2004
The pleasures in life.
Being at camp is like being in jail sometimes. The food is bad, you wrestle with the other inmates (the kids), and at the end of the day - you feel like you got your ass kicked. Food and candy bars become the currency the way cigarettes do. Counselor NiceBag got each of us a Bar One when she went into town (Bar One is the South African equivalent of a Snickers). I told myself I'd save it for the end of a really bad day, but I already took one bite. Then I told myself I'd ration it for the remainder of the week, but I ended up eating half of it, before forcing myself to stop and put it back under my pillow. But oh that guilty pleasure was so good. I could feel the chocolate coursing through my veins and that warm sweetness filling every corner of my mouth... I had to really brace myself before putting it back, telling myself I'd need it for the remaining days.
The kids were so bad today I was ashamed. I've had to scold them all day, and tonight's evening activity was chaos. They're not getting dessert tomorrow. I had to pull L. aside and tell him, "As long as you're at camp, you have to follow camp rules, which includes doing what the counselors tell you to. If you don't want to follow the camp rules, we can send you home. There's a bus coming tomorrow for all the kids who don't want to stay at camp." Yes, the imaginary bus works wonders on getting kids to behave. I've changed my plan of wanting 16 children of my own. These past 6 days, I got a taste of having 12 children and I'm at my wit's end. I find myself wanting to shake them and asking the unanswerable questionn, "Why are you so bad?" Glasses said it might be homesickness. According to camp philosophy, all this bad behavior is because we're in the "Storming" phase (the phase that comes after "Norming") where the kids begin to test their boundaries. We've had at least 4 fights over the past 2 days. When I wake up in the morning, I drag my feet on the way to the cabin because I can already anticipate the scene that will greet me. Tears and fists.
The most well-adjusted cabin kid is the one who lives with his mother. The next well-adjusted ones are surprisingly the ones from the children's homes. Some of our kids evidently have problems. One of them regularly doesn't eat, or will fail to respond when being spoken to. Another one is bigger than the others and ends up hurting them often when they wrestle. A third one is a complete mystery to me since he rarely smiles, only sometimes participates, but is otherwise well behaved when he's not pounding some kid into the dirt. He helps clean up and such all the time though.
Some of the boys in cabin H have crushes on me, which I suppose is flattering in a 14 year old sort of way. It's been a tough day. Tomorrow I'm teaching Swimming. I get to spend all day sitting in a freezing pool.
The kids were so bad today I was ashamed. I've had to scold them all day, and tonight's evening activity was chaos. They're not getting dessert tomorrow. I had to pull L. aside and tell him, "As long as you're at camp, you have to follow camp rules, which includes doing what the counselors tell you to. If you don't want to follow the camp rules, we can send you home. There's a bus coming tomorrow for all the kids who don't want to stay at camp." Yes, the imaginary bus works wonders on getting kids to behave. I've changed my plan of wanting 16 children of my own. These past 6 days, I got a taste of having 12 children and I'm at my wit's end. I find myself wanting to shake them and asking the unanswerable questionn, "Why are you so bad?" Glasses said it might be homesickness. According to camp philosophy, all this bad behavior is because we're in the "Storming" phase (the phase that comes after "Norming") where the kids begin to test their boundaries. We've had at least 4 fights over the past 2 days. When I wake up in the morning, I drag my feet on the way to the cabin because I can already anticipate the scene that will greet me. Tears and fists.
The most well-adjusted cabin kid is the one who lives with his mother. The next well-adjusted ones are surprisingly the ones from the children's homes. Some of our kids evidently have problems. One of them regularly doesn't eat, or will fail to respond when being spoken to. Another one is bigger than the others and ends up hurting them often when they wrestle. A third one is a complete mystery to me since he rarely smiles, only sometimes participates, but is otherwise well behaved when he's not pounding some kid into the dirt. He helps clean up and such all the time though.
Some of the boys in cabin H have crushes on me, which I suppose is flattering in a 14 year old sort of way. It's been a tough day. Tomorrow I'm teaching Swimming. I get to spend all day sitting in a freezing pool.
Monday, September 27, 2004
Cranky is the word of the day.
I'm in one of those unexplainable fussy moods where nothing makes me happy and I'm generally listless. Being at camp means that you never really get a moment to yourself without someone knocking a friendly hello, which you then feel guilty about feeling resentful of. I guess this is where my loner side kicks in.
The kids have been fighting and crying and generally being horrendous to each other. One kid smeared toothpaste all over the other kid's bed. S, the former sweetheart, alternates between being a little monster and wanting to blow love strawberries on my neck. X competes with S for my attention, making him the equivalent of a limp puppet hanging around my neck half the time. Oh, and we haven't had running hot water for 3 days and the food has been awful. It's been eggs, oatmeal, mac and cheese, bread, and more and more empty carbs. What I want tomorrow morning is a leisurely breakfast of strawberries and cream and a good book. I want to read out in the sun on a lounge chair. Alone. I don't want to see or talk to anyone.
One of our other international counselors Red, from Monaco. Drum it!
The kids have been fighting and crying and generally being horrendous to each other. One kid smeared toothpaste all over the other kid's bed. S, the former sweetheart, alternates between being a little monster and wanting to blow love strawberries on my neck. X competes with S for my attention, making him the equivalent of a limp puppet hanging around my neck half the time. Oh, and we haven't had running hot water for 3 days and the food has been awful. It's been eggs, oatmeal, mac and cheese, bread, and more and more empty carbs. What I want tomorrow morning is a leisurely breakfast of strawberries and cream and a good book. I want to read out in the sun on a lounge chair. Alone. I don't want to see or talk to anyone.
One of our other international counselors Red, from Monaco. Drum it!
Saturday, September 25, 2004
Jekyll and Hyde.
My cabinmate Venda told me today that I'm the kindest person he's ever met. Me. Kind. If he only knew some of the awful thoughts that go through my head on a daily basis. Maybe it's because I'm actually happy here and it shows. Wayan told me the other day that he likes hanging out with me because I'm always "peppy". I started laughing. If my friends at home could only hear him. My college roommate once told me that she kinda likes the pessimism and sarcasm. She considers it part of my charm.
You wouldn't believe how good some of these kids are at sports. Soccer, against an African backdrop. Red, the counselor from Monaco got to teach Sports. I was intensely envious, because he got to be outside everyday. Not that I'm any good at sports anyways, but I am an excellent timekeeper.
You wouldn't believe how good some of these kids are at sports. Soccer, against an African backdrop. Red, the counselor from Monaco got to teach Sports. I was intensely envious, because he got to be outside everyday. Not that I'm any good at sports anyways, but I am an excellent timekeeper.
Friday, September 24, 2004
Thursday, September 23, 2004
The Big Day.
I met the kids today! Venda and Glasses are my co-cabin-counselors. The kids were shy at first, introducing themselves with small voices. But by lights out, they were rowdy and raucous. I'll never be able to remember all their names. The only ones I remember so far are the names of the bad ones, because I have to call them so often. "Siboniso! Don't run! Siboniso! No pushing!" Siboniso, coincidentally, is also the one who started running up to me anxiously saying things like, "Mammy! Mammy! Toilet!" and "Mammy! Juice!" Basically, when he doesn't need anything, he generally ignores me and makes himself a nuisance - like yelling "WAKE UP!" ten minutes after lights out, or pouting "No! I want to play!" when I tell him to get into bed. His older brother Karabo is a sweetheart and very eager to please. Very much the elder sibling, he responsibly came up with great Cabin Rules like "clean the bathroom" and "don't be mean". He also shushes the other kids when I'm talking and is concerned when we miss announcements because I was taking him to the toilet. "Glasses will tell us back at the cabin what the announcements were, right?"
A few of the kids were very homesick right off the bat. Two of them sprawled face down on the bed as soon as we got to the cabin and pulled their pillows over their heads. One of them dumped all his food onto another kid's plate and wouldn't eat, clutching onto this little white bear that had "I love you" embroidered onto it. Obviously, from his mom. Now that I'm a counselor, I question the value of such mementos as they only serve to push the already homesick child over the edge. I think they do more on the parental end for easing their anxiety about leaving their kids at camp. Most of the kids here are urban underserved, and a good amount are from children's homes. Out of the 12 kids in my cabin, 9 of them are from children's homes. Of the remaining 3, only 1 lives with his mother, and the other two live with siblings and without adult supervision. A social worker comes in to check on them once a week. Two of the kids are HIV positive.
I can't seem to get a grasp on how different underdeveloped countries are. Though my cabin is full of 10 year olds, a lot of them have trouble reading and writing. They're also a lot smaller than the 10 year olds in the States. I'd put them at age 6 or 7. Only some of them know their 2x tables, but camp friendships don't seem to mind such educational borders and boundaries as they became friends despite mathematical differences. Not knowing how to read and write doesn't mean they're not smart though. Upon arrival, we asked the boys if they had any questions before proceeding to the cabins. Karabo raised his hand and asked very seriously, "Are there lions here?" I answered very seriously back, "Good question. No lions. Just some spring buck."
One of my most glamorous moments today happened when I was trying to get Siboniso to drink some water. To convince him, I took a sip of it myself, going "Mmmm! So good!" before choking on it because it went down the wrong pipe.
PLil, the camp director, asked me whether we had a cabin name yet. I promised him we'd have one by tomorrow, so we asked the boys tonight what they'd like to be since being simply Cabin B is Boring. I thought they'd come up with the Bees, or the Buffalo! But instead, they came up with... Boxes. Bagels. And Beds. Finally after some more thought, Bums. I told them their homework was to think about it during dinner. Right before lights out, they came up with... Boys. Evidently, Venda, Glasses, and I will have to pick a name for them tomorrow. As it is, I'm exhausted and it's only 10 pm.
You wouldn't believe how much food these kids can inhale. I asked one of them incredulously, "Do you eat this much at home?" He paused between shoveling food into his mouth and said "No." He drinks a glass of water for breakfast. He only gets one small bowl for lunch. And for dinner, he eats 2 pieces of white bread with water. Having 3 meals a day at camp was incredible for these boys, and they ate each meal like it was their last. After the meal, they kept pulling their shirts up to show each other how big their bellies were. This Cabin B-er is also wearing my watch. I wasn't aware at the time, but my 7 dollar indiglo watch that lights up at night made me an instant hit with the boys.
A few of the kids were very homesick right off the bat. Two of them sprawled face down on the bed as soon as we got to the cabin and pulled their pillows over their heads. One of them dumped all his food onto another kid's plate and wouldn't eat, clutching onto this little white bear that had "I love you" embroidered onto it. Obviously, from his mom. Now that I'm a counselor, I question the value of such mementos as they only serve to push the already homesick child over the edge. I think they do more on the parental end for easing their anxiety about leaving their kids at camp. Most of the kids here are urban underserved, and a good amount are from children's homes. Out of the 12 kids in my cabin, 9 of them are from children's homes. Of the remaining 3, only 1 lives with his mother, and the other two live with siblings and without adult supervision. A social worker comes in to check on them once a week. Two of the kids are HIV positive.
I can't seem to get a grasp on how different underdeveloped countries are. Though my cabin is full of 10 year olds, a lot of them have trouble reading and writing. They're also a lot smaller than the 10 year olds in the States. I'd put them at age 6 or 7. Only some of them know their 2x tables, but camp friendships don't seem to mind such educational borders and boundaries as they became friends despite mathematical differences. Not knowing how to read and write doesn't mean they're not smart though. Upon arrival, we asked the boys if they had any questions before proceeding to the cabins. Karabo raised his hand and asked very seriously, "Are there lions here?" I answered very seriously back, "Good question. No lions. Just some spring buck."
One of my most glamorous moments today happened when I was trying to get Siboniso to drink some water. To convince him, I took a sip of it myself, going "Mmmm! So good!" before choking on it because it went down the wrong pipe.
PLil, the camp director, asked me whether we had a cabin name yet. I promised him we'd have one by tomorrow, so we asked the boys tonight what they'd like to be since being simply Cabin B is Boring. I thought they'd come up with the Bees, or the Buffalo! But instead, they came up with... Boxes. Bagels. And Beds. Finally after some more thought, Bums. I told them their homework was to think about it during dinner. Right before lights out, they came up with... Boys. Evidently, Venda, Glasses, and I will have to pick a name for them tomorrow. As it is, I'm exhausted and it's only 10 pm.
You wouldn't believe how much food these kids can inhale. I asked one of them incredulously, "Do you eat this much at home?" He paused between shoveling food into his mouth and said "No." He drinks a glass of water for breakfast. He only gets one small bowl for lunch. And for dinner, he eats 2 pieces of white bread with water. Having 3 meals a day at camp was incredible for these boys, and they ate each meal like it was their last. After the meal, they kept pulling their shirts up to show each other how big their bellies were. This Cabin B-er is also wearing my watch. I wasn't aware at the time, but my 7 dollar indiglo watch that lights up at night made me an instant hit with the boys.
Wednesday, September 22, 2004
Street cred.
My MD player has made me instantly popular. Being with the same 25 counselors for 3 days straight during training has made us bond faster than possible. Apparently, liking Black Eyed Peas and Outkast automatically makes me cool. I get to meet the kids tomorrow and I'm excited and nervous. My nights have been filled with all sorts of anxious dreams about losing puppies.
The counselor from next door, me, and my roommate.
The counselor from next door, me, and my roommate.
Tuesday, September 21, 2004
Even in Africa, some things don't change.
Today, sadly enough, seemed a little less amazing. Maybe the thrill of novelty wore off. Kinda like how by the second day of my safari, it was no longer "Oooo! Look!" and more of "Oh. Another giraffe." Or maybe it's simply because I've been cranky and tired all day. More staff training. More games. And a BBC video about the camp that made me cry. The day was saved though, by a fabulous conversation with Sideshow Bob, one of the South African counselors. Bob told me about South Sutu culture. Most interesting to me was the practice of putting prices on your daughters that's still current today. If Bob was to meet a girl he wanted to marry, he'd have to "buy" her from her family before he could do it, which is the complete opposite of every other culture I can think of where the woman's family pays a dowry to the man who wants to marry her. Despite the patriarchal nature of African societies, perhaps African women have an almost stronger role because they must be bought. Granted, that smacks of slavery, but having a price on your head for your hand in marriage is still a step up from your parents paying someone to take you away - which is pretty much what a dowry is. In fact, in Africa, if you get a girl pregnant and decide not to marry her, you have to pay her family for the "damage".
Even more jarring was the realization that its not just the campers here who are from the inner city, but many of the counselors as well. I found out over dinner today that Wayan never met his father. He doesn't even know who his father is. Him, his brother, and his sister all have different fathers, and this is a common scenario in African culture. Because it's so prevalent, it doesn't carry the same social stigma that it does in Western culture. I don't know why it was so startling for me to hear Wayan tell me that. But I suppose there's a difference between knowing a fact and seeing it. So many assumptions are made on a daily basis that the people you meet are similar to you. I found out tonight that Bob's mother as well is a single mother of two - also from different fathers. As Bob is one of my favorite people so far, it was a little strange to hear that he comes from such a dramatically different background. Besides being relatively good looking and funny, he also hasn't ever gone to college, doesn't have a job, and is 22. Yes, I'm finally getting old enough that there exist "younger men" over the age of 21. He's even younger than my ex boyfriend. Like most girls, I caught myself dilly-dallying down a path of daydreaming in which we dated and he came to visit me in the U.S. I realized quickly that it'd be a Sweet Home Alabama sort of situation, except I wouldn't move to South Africa to be with my down-home sweetheart. Bob is very cute and attractive at camp in South Africa, but I have no qualms that placing him in a New York or Philadelphia setting would be bizarre. Though I think my friends would be impressed by his good looks, I have to conclude 2 days after meeting him that sadly - we are never meant to be together. He has that strange boyish appeal I was attracted to back when I was 15. I'm surprised at the reversion to prior "types". Since then, I've developed a taste for solid manly bodies. One with a bit of heft. I'd rather have a man with a paunch than a skinny boy.
Many Africans believe that worms live in the condoms, or that they're too small to fit. So, during counselor training, each group was given a condom, and we were told to fill it with whatever we wanted - leaves, twigs, water, or in our case, air. Washington shows exactly how big a condom can get.
Even more jarring was the realization that its not just the campers here who are from the inner city, but many of the counselors as well. I found out over dinner today that Wayan never met his father. He doesn't even know who his father is. Him, his brother, and his sister all have different fathers, and this is a common scenario in African culture. Because it's so prevalent, it doesn't carry the same social stigma that it does in Western culture. I don't know why it was so startling for me to hear Wayan tell me that. But I suppose there's a difference between knowing a fact and seeing it. So many assumptions are made on a daily basis that the people you meet are similar to you. I found out tonight that Bob's mother as well is a single mother of two - also from different fathers. As Bob is one of my favorite people so far, it was a little strange to hear that he comes from such a dramatically different background. Besides being relatively good looking and funny, he also hasn't ever gone to college, doesn't have a job, and is 22. Yes, I'm finally getting old enough that there exist "younger men" over the age of 21. He's even younger than my ex boyfriend. Like most girls, I caught myself dilly-dallying down a path of daydreaming in which we dated and he came to visit me in the U.S. I realized quickly that it'd be a Sweet Home Alabama sort of situation, except I wouldn't move to South Africa to be with my down-home sweetheart. Bob is very cute and attractive at camp in South Africa, but I have no qualms that placing him in a New York or Philadelphia setting would be bizarre. Though I think my friends would be impressed by his good looks, I have to conclude 2 days after meeting him that sadly - we are never meant to be together. He has that strange boyish appeal I was attracted to back when I was 15. I'm surprised at the reversion to prior "types". Since then, I've developed a taste for solid manly bodies. One with a bit of heft. I'd rather have a man with a paunch than a skinny boy.
Many Africans believe that worms live in the condoms, or that they're too small to fit. So, during counselor training, each group was given a condom, and we were told to fill it with whatever we wanted - leaves, twigs, water, or in our case, air. Washington shows exactly how big a condom can get.
Monday, September 20, 2004
Day 1 of Camp. Counselor Training.
It's been the most amazing experience and I'm less than 24 hours into it. I've always felt a bit odd that Africa didn't feel as foreign to me as I thought it would, but today - today I gained a peep into the true voice and face of Africa through the singing and drumming and dancing that went on in the bus. The energy was just incredible, and I felt this tremendous sense of gratitude and disbelief that I was given the opportunity to witness this and be a part of it. The other counselors are very friendly and open. I've noticed that Westerners in general are much more reserved with strangers and much less warm than what I've experienced here. If I was on a bus full of Western counselors, we'd probably all be making polite chitchat with each other, generating a low buzz, not the hand-clapping drum-beating toe-tapping singing-and-dancing I saw today. Plus, the ability to improv is amazing. I can see the roots of hiphop and rap in the singing of these Africans - many generations and an ocean removed from African Americans, but sharing still the beats that are the foundation of their music. And the improv, oh God the improv. None of the music I heard today was scripted or practiced before. It was all done on-the-fly. Words cannot describe how incredible it was and I can't help but feel like I'm doing it a gross injustice by even trying to describe it. Even as someone who doesn't have African roots, I can feel the beats resonating in my body, as if it was speaking to me on a more primal human level that race doesn't even approach. Africa is the motherland after all. I find it interesting that a lot of African sayings are similar to ours. "You can see a rose. With thorns. Or you can see the thorns. With a rose." The majority of the counselors are from Soweto. There are 7 different cultural groups there and 7 different languages. This means that most Soweto inhabitants know all 7 languages plus an eighth one of "street talk" which is a mixture of the 7. Plus English. It makes you wonder who's really more educated.
One of the counselors gave me an African name. Palesa. Which means flower. Being 1 of 5 girls at a boys' camp means I get a lot of attention I'm sure I don't deserve. Am too tired to write more. Feeling incoherent.
One of the counselors gave me an African name. Palesa. Which means flower. Being 1 of 5 girls at a boys' camp means I get a lot of attention I'm sure I don't deserve. Am too tired to write more. Feeling incoherent.
Sunday, September 19, 2004
Irish friends.
I've managed to remedy the tragedy of losing a pen by getting one from the hostel, only to replace it with an even greater tragedy - I lost my Let's Go guide book. I met 3 irish boys at the bar on Friday night and decided to go with them on the Panorama Route. Sean, Davey, and Emmet were their names. I handed my guide book to Emmet in the navigator seat as a supplemental map and never managed to get it back. This may quite possibly top the losing of a pen. The stores are all closed already (we got lost on the way back and ended up driving up a mountain). I suppose I'll just play it by ear. At Funky Monkey's, I met and hung out with the guy who's writing the Alternative Route guide book to hostels in South Africa. Very cool Brit guy. The 6 hour ride from nelspruit back to Pretoria was bad. Not for any discernible reason besides that I was cranky, tired, and irritable. I'm back at Pretoria Backpackers, minus a travel guide, minsu a USB memory card, minus a usable sleeping bag liner. Checked into a dimly lighted dorm room. Still have to:
1. call malealea lodge to arrange blomfontein transfers
2. arrange plane ticket from port elizabeth back to jo'burg
3. arrange train tickets to blomfontein
Blyde River Canyon.
1. call malealea lodge to arrange blomfontein transfers
2. arrange plane ticket from port elizabeth back to jo'burg
3. arrange train tickets to blomfontein
Blyde River Canyon.
Friday, September 17, 2004
Nelspruit.
I've lost my pen =(. That may be the greatest tragedy yet today. The safari ended alright. Still no lions, but I do have that spectacularly blurry shot I took yesterday. I said goodbye to Adrian and Darryl (our guide and chef). Adrian is obviously someone who likely connects with animals better than he does with people. Very quiet, a little shy, he comes to life only when spotting an animal or directly addressed. The fact that he's an orphan endeared him all the more to me. That and I've always felt an affinity for socially awkward people since I feel socially awkward myself. His dad was murdered when he was 13 (they never found out who did it) and his mum died of cancer a year ago. Death seems to be a common here.
I've checked into Funky Monkey's in Nelspruit instead of staying at Big 5 for another day. The thought of having to endure another grueling moth-filled ordeal was too much. The morning shower idea at Big 5 was only marginally better. I managed to kill a bug in the shower with my flipflop without screaming (whereas its okay for me to give in to my natural instincts in my own home, I am quite aware that a 23 y.o. grown woman should not be screaming like that in public). I got naked, only to notice a gigantic moth on the wall near the toilet. I got dressed quickly and tried the other bathroom. Only to also kill another bug (also without screaming), get naked, close the shower curtain, to find a moth on the inside of the curtain. At that point, I told myself I'd just have to wash my hair real fast and showered with the curtain open (thus giving the moth less of a chance to fly out at me). I was in such a terrified state that I fled that bathroom, leaving my shampoo in the shower and dropping my undies on the stone steps leading to the bungalow (which I was told about later by the cleaning lady who informed me that she thought I dropped "something" outside). I brushed my teeth outside the bungalow, using my spring water. I'm such a cowards. Regardless, here I am at Funky Monkey's, my only regret being that I saw a fabulously cute boy in the self-same moth-y bathroom as the shuttle pulled away. Likely, he is staying there alone. Perfect bonding time. But not even cute boys is enough to incite me to stay another night. A shame really since Anthea, the hostel owner's girlfriend is very nice.
I've checked into Nelspruit into my first hostel dorm. Being a newbie at this, I forgot to ask for a girls-only dorm. So I'm now in a room with 3 boys, one of whom - I'm sad to say, smells. Smelliness is reason enough to ask for a girl's dorm. Much less the safety factor and ease of changing. He did kill a mosquitoe on the wall for me though. After three tries. Drunkenness does not become one's aim. Funky Monkey's is okay, but the food is tremendously overpriced. There are more backpackers here, which is a thumbs up, and I don't even mind the lizards on the wall whose tails fall off if you get too close. However, more backpackers means the shyness sets in. Large groups of people do that to me. With smaller groups, I'm readily willing to chatter away, but now's as good as a time as any other to start breaking this Pavlovian response to new people. I rinsed my mouth with salt water to help the sores heal. Rinsing with salt water always makes me feel slightly ill.
Later.
The hostel is dominated by men and the bar sounds entirely too raucous for me. My mouth still hurts and its hard to eat or smile. I'm lying in bed alone in the dorm room. Reminiscent of camp. But what with just being on a safari, the last thing I want to do is engage in a game of beer pong. I think I'm just tired and cranky. If the dog outside doesn't stop barking, I'm going to shoot it.
Even Later.
Smelly Man came in and woke me up to profess his eternal love to me. Oh the wonder of beer goggles. Then I was thrown in the pool along with the hostel owner. I don't exactly have a lot of extra clothes to change into, considering that I only packed one set of pajamas, and they now smell like chlorine. Nothing like beer, pools, and wet girls to form new bonds though, however grouchy ones. Ellen, the manager here, is great. She lent me pajamas. And Smelly Man isn't so bad when he's so genuinely apologetic in the face of wrathful wet women.
I've checked into Funky Monkey's in Nelspruit instead of staying at Big 5 for another day. The thought of having to endure another grueling moth-filled ordeal was too much. The morning shower idea at Big 5 was only marginally better. I managed to kill a bug in the shower with my flipflop without screaming (whereas its okay for me to give in to my natural instincts in my own home, I am quite aware that a 23 y.o. grown woman should not be screaming like that in public). I got naked, only to notice a gigantic moth on the wall near the toilet. I got dressed quickly and tried the other bathroom. Only to also kill another bug (also without screaming), get naked, close the shower curtain, to find a moth on the inside of the curtain. At that point, I told myself I'd just have to wash my hair real fast and showered with the curtain open (thus giving the moth less of a chance to fly out at me). I was in such a terrified state that I fled that bathroom, leaving my shampoo in the shower and dropping my undies on the stone steps leading to the bungalow (which I was told about later by the cleaning lady who informed me that she thought I dropped "something" outside). I brushed my teeth outside the bungalow, using my spring water. I'm such a cowards. Regardless, here I am at Funky Monkey's, my only regret being that I saw a fabulously cute boy in the self-same moth-y bathroom as the shuttle pulled away. Likely, he is staying there alone. Perfect bonding time. But not even cute boys is enough to incite me to stay another night. A shame really since Anthea, the hostel owner's girlfriend is very nice.
I've checked into Nelspruit into my first hostel dorm. Being a newbie at this, I forgot to ask for a girls-only dorm. So I'm now in a room with 3 boys, one of whom - I'm sad to say, smells. Smelliness is reason enough to ask for a girl's dorm. Much less the safety factor and ease of changing. He did kill a mosquitoe on the wall for me though. After three tries. Drunkenness does not become one's aim. Funky Monkey's is okay, but the food is tremendously overpriced. There are more backpackers here, which is a thumbs up, and I don't even mind the lizards on the wall whose tails fall off if you get too close. However, more backpackers means the shyness sets in. Large groups of people do that to me. With smaller groups, I'm readily willing to chatter away, but now's as good as a time as any other to start breaking this Pavlovian response to new people. I rinsed my mouth with salt water to help the sores heal. Rinsing with salt water always makes me feel slightly ill.
Later.
The hostel is dominated by men and the bar sounds entirely too raucous for me. My mouth still hurts and its hard to eat or smile. I'm lying in bed alone in the dorm room. Reminiscent of camp. But what with just being on a safari, the last thing I want to do is engage in a game of beer pong. I think I'm just tired and cranky. If the dog outside doesn't stop barking, I'm going to shoot it.
Even Later.
Smelly Man came in and woke me up to profess his eternal love to me. Oh the wonder of beer goggles. Then I was thrown in the pool along with the hostel owner. I don't exactly have a lot of extra clothes to change into, considering that I only packed one set of pajamas, and they now smell like chlorine. Nothing like beer, pools, and wet girls to form new bonds though, however grouchy ones. Ellen, the manager here, is great. She lent me pajamas. And Smelly Man isn't so bad when he's so genuinely apologetic in the face of wrathful wet women.
Thursday, September 16, 2004
Kruger Park Day 2
6 AM: The sun rises very fast in AFrica. Blink and its light.
6:50 AM: Saw a male baboon from afar, sitting in a tree on the side of a mountain, looking at the sunrise. I've never seen anything so beautiful as that silhouette. It seems oddly human and prehistoric and m akes my life in the U.S. feel so trivial. We've lost touch and lost sight of the important things, the moments that don't cost a thing and are free for the grabbing if we're only willing to take the time. There are so many beautiful things around us that are free. Why do we place so much value on those with an artificially created pricetag? Society is the problem. We should all lead solitary existences like the male baboon.
8 AM: Today's Dorito flavor: Salsa BBQ
10:15 AM: Funny how every adjective I've heard used to describe animals is not just cliche, but true. Majestic elephants. Graceful giraffes. I don't know why I have such a hard time believing that things are just like in the movies (I just saw two waterbuck sparring), but I suppose it's because real life is never like the movies, but animals really -are- like Animal Planet. Seeing such simple things as elephants by the water make my life seem needlessly complicated. Everything stress-related in my life seems to be tied to money in some way. Money -is- the root of all evil.
1:15 PM: Baboons!
3:59 PM: Giraffes on the other side of the bank. Life somehow seems so simple here, watching them graze. Granted, I never have to worry about lions either. I like seeing animals fromm afar. It makes them more philosophical and contemplative somehow, and less biologically wild.
4:10 PM: Hippos! Hippos have no natural predators. Which of couurse makes it the animal I want ot be. Fat. Lazy. And all they do is sunbathe and sit in the water. Oh, and everyone fears you. Hippos are responsible for more human deaths in Africa than any other animal. I imagine it must be like being the U.S. president.
Lake Panic viewing area. Absolutely gorgeous and peaceful.
6:50 AM: Saw a male baboon from afar, sitting in a tree on the side of a mountain, looking at the sunrise. I've never seen anything so beautiful as that silhouette. It seems oddly human and prehistoric and m akes my life in the U.S. feel so trivial. We've lost touch and lost sight of the important things, the moments that don't cost a thing and are free for the grabbing if we're only willing to take the time. There are so many beautiful things around us that are free. Why do we place so much value on those with an artificially created pricetag? Society is the problem. We should all lead solitary existences like the male baboon.
8 AM: Today's Dorito flavor: Salsa BBQ
10:15 AM: Funny how every adjective I've heard used to describe animals is not just cliche, but true. Majestic elephants. Graceful giraffes. I don't know why I have such a hard time believing that things are just like in the movies (I just saw two waterbuck sparring), but I suppose it's because real life is never like the movies, but animals really -are- like Animal Planet. Seeing such simple things as elephants by the water make my life seem needlessly complicated. Everything stress-related in my life seems to be tied to money in some way. Money -is- the root of all evil.
1:15 PM: Baboons!
3:59 PM: Giraffes on the other side of the bank. Life somehow seems so simple here, watching them graze. Granted, I never have to worry about lions either. I like seeing animals fromm afar. It makes them more philosophical and contemplative somehow, and less biologically wild.
4:10 PM: Hippos! Hippos have no natural predators. Which of couurse makes it the animal I want ot be. Fat. Lazy. And all they do is sunbathe and sit in the water. Oh, and everyone fears you. Hippos are responsible for more human deaths in Africa than any other animal. I imagine it must be like being the U.S. president.
Lake Panic viewing area. Absolutely gorgeous and peaceful.
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