Part 2: An Africa that Works
Trip Start
Jul 16, 2004
1
7
11
Trip End
Aug 01, 2004
Xugana Lodge, Okavango Delta,
Botswana
Friday, July 23, 2004
Imagine not having to imagine.
I am compelled toward contemplation as I begin a new entry in this travel journal
Hippo - i - View
. In human terms, Africa is a continent with more than its fair share of poverty, strife, bloodshed, and tribal warfare (well, one could make that case that all warfare is tribal, but that discussion is far beyond the scope of this writing - a fruitless digression to our otherwise placid scene.)I am intrigued by the likes of Robert Young Pelton, author of several books, one of which is The Adventurist - My Life in Dangerous Places. His style of "warfare tourism/journalism" is interesting and even important - at least it offers an independent view of areas and situations that we in America are generally given only spoon-fed glimpses of. When Robert Pelton visits Africa, we read about the genocide, the human tragedy, the hopelessness, and the hunger - both physical and spiritual - of Africa.
This is not the only picture of Africa that is worthy of investigation. Okay, so I'm no "adventurist" in the style of Pelton. I am just a tourist out on a wildlife safari, but I am happy to offer a contrasting view nonetheless. If only I could figure out a way to take home with me and communicate the feeling of Africa I have right now. The power of the natural world, the perfect order, purpose, and immeasurable beauty. This needs to be reported as well. I may not be putting life and limb on the line to get the story (we did need a gun for our hike this morning, if only for insurance purposes and not, fortunately, to actually be used), but the least I can do is tell a different story of Africa from the one so often reported
Hippo - i - View2
. It is the story found, for me, mostly in the quiet moments of the inner soul, reaching out to an undeniable force, the primordial source, the beginning. The long, long road from the path my ancestors followed to where I am today. Carrying around a camera trying to capture it in a glance of light...You'll have to excuse me; I'm from northern California and prone to such talk. I sometimes get an overwhelming urge to go hug a tree. I know it sounds crazy - but that's my story and I'm sticking to it. Come out here to southern Africa if you don't believe me. There's human history, and then there's history. The story of a natural world perfecting itself over countless millennia, growing out of an unknowable source, an expression of something far greater than anything we could possibly imagine. Come, Grasshopper, and learn...
In any case, I won't try to carry the conversation too far beyond my capacity to sustain it. I just hope that Botswana can maintain the fine line they have thus far successfully balanced with high-end tourism and the preservation of their incomparable natural resources. It seems to me that this works for Africa; Human tragedy, genocide, poverty and hunger, not so much.
But I digress anyway..
Hippo - i - View3
.We will leave Xugana Lodge in the morning, flying back the way we came, more or less, in a light plane for more exploration in the Moremi Game Reserve along the Khwai River Valley.
It's been a pleasurable two days in this lovely spot. Last evening, after we arrived and had time to settle into our thatch and wood "chalets" with large screened sliding doors that don't lock (why should they?), we were taken across the lagoon to enjoy the sunset over the delta. Sitting in the boat amongst the reeds and water lilies made for what could be some of the best sunset shots of the trip, though we've got plenty of opportunities left for some great sunsets!
This morning was my favorite activity, involving moving around using two legs as the principal means of locomotion - some call it a hike, as in "go take one!" We did! It was refreshing to have my feet on the ground while practicing being a bipedal mammal. It also helped to give me an admittedly vague sense of how it must have been like to be a bipedal mammal eons ago when one had little more than their own resourcefulness in living day to day in the wilderness; finding food to eat and refraining from becoming food to eat for the multitude of creatures that had little reason, at the time, to fear a large-brained animal walking on only two legs.
To that end, Alwyn and the local guide from the lodge took very seriously their role in making sure that we didn't blunder into the mouths of waiting predator.
Taking a thirty minute early morning boat ride through a series of reed and crocodile lined waterways, we ended up on a relatively large (though still pretty small) island named "Palm Island", apparently due to the two or three palm trees visible on the horizon
Mokoro
. Upon disembarking from the boat, I promptly headed off down a path looking for trees to take pictures of. I was quickly rounded up by the local guide and asked to return to where most of the group was standing around Alwyn. I had no desire to be a troublemaker, so I complied.Alwyn reminded us that we were still in the African bush, full of dangerous animals just waiting for a chance to get at a fleshy human outside one of those infernal Land Cruisers. While Alwyn talked, the local guide was busy studying our surroundings. Alwyn told us that there was little chance of any problem, but should a situation occur, we needed to place our total faith in him and his assistant. If we were told to stand perfectly still, we needed to do just that. If we were told to immediately climb the nearest tree, well, we shouldn't take a sip of water first while considering the most picturesque tree to climb - we should just get our butts up a tree.
With our attention sufficiently captured, he then took the rifle from its vinyl bag and explained that he only started using a gun on walking safaris when he felt he didn't really need one. If he had to use a gun at all, "it means that we screwed up". This comment really impressed me. It made it clear who the visitors were.
Palm Island
To bring the point home, he instructed us visitors how we should act while walking through the bush - no talking, single file, and stay together. If someone strays from the "herd", they will become a prime target for any potential predator. Robert Pelton eat your heart out dude, we're going on a walking safari and we could be eaten in the process!Well, okay, probably not, and if we were to be eaten, we'd probably have deserved it due to being incredibly stupid (and not paying attention to our caretakers), but the whole thing did give our little hike a slightly delicious air of danger... Alwyn loaded large, animal-dropping bullets into the rifle and we were off, silently and in single file; our little troop of bipedal mammals.
We really didn't see much that would have caused us to climb a tree or feel in any way endangered, though I did need to be told to step away from the shore of a small lagoon while studying the eyeballs of a hippo poking up out of the water studying me. I had wandered a little too far from the group... But I wasn't the only one. As our two hour hike progressed and the feeling of danger decreased, Alwyn had to regularly stop to let stragglers catch up.
Though we only saw some warthog and elephant in the distance, and those hippo eyes gliding above the water, (only? Sheesh
Sunset over the Delta
! Listen to me!) the hike was a pleasant one. It felt good to get some exercise and get a little blood flow going. Yesterday's awakening to the feeling of sure Malaria Death was long gone. The island was mostly flat savannah with tall grass turned golden in the dry winter sun. Low scrub brush was interspersed with acacia and mopane trees; their bare angular limbs outlined against the deep blue sky called out to the tree-hugger in me. And, of course, there was our island's namesake palm trees standing tall in the distance.
I think our requirements of staying in single file and not talking was starting to wear a little thin on some in our group, especially the boys, who did contain themselves pretty well despite being fourteen years old and no doubt overrun with energy - I seem to remember such a state so very long ago. While not everyone shared Jayne and my enthusiasm for planting our feet on the ground and walking, the hike didn't last too long and soon we were on the boat heading back to our little home island and waiting brunch.
After brunch I acquired ten more rolls of film from the little curio shop, giving me a fighting chance of having enough to last me for the rest of the trip (about 860 exposures now), and a nap
The tribe
. One reason I love Africa is because people take naps in the early afternoon. Not long, monster naps; just enough to clear away the cobwebs - fifteen or twenty minutes and I'm good to go. This afternoon our goings took us down another series of waterways off the lagoon toward the small grass airstrip and the "mokoro launch". A mokoro is essentially a dugout canoe. Originally made of wood, they are now manufactured in fiberglass. While not giving the same feeling of authenticity, they save trees - so fiberglass all the way I say!
The mokoros accommodate two riders with the "poler" standing up at the rear to propel and steer with his pole (think Venice - kinda). The job of handling the pole is much harder than it looks, and it didn't necessarily look that easy. The most daunting thing, I think, was just maintaining balance. After I crawled into my spot and situated myself, just turning my head to the right gave a sense of impending wetness with the mokoro seemingly just looking for an excuse to capsize. That we didn't is a credit to "Socks" our mokoro driver, who kept the craft expertly balanced despite the newbie tourists in his charge for our hour-long mokoro ride. Not only did he keep us dry, he propelled and steered us expertly through the water. While essentially a pretty tourist-y thing to do, a mokoro ride affords a perspective not available even on a small boat. Our mokoro sliced through water chestnuts, lilies, and reeds higher than my head and softly brushing my face. Today has been a good day to see the landscape from a vantage point other than that of a Land Cruiser. Socks was attentive to us and chatted us up about things we already knew, thanks to Alwyn, and some things we didn't know. It was interesting to hear how his family was forced to flee Angola back in the seventies due to the political strife of that country
Trees on Palm Island
. He considers Botswana his home now, but does miss some of his relatives that remain in Angola. He has been able to visit them in Namibia, but those occasions are rare. When we told Socks we were from San Francisco, I got the distinct impression that he hadn't heard of it before. In fact, the largest town he's been in is probably Maun, with a population of 35,000. He spoke of how people can act inhumane toward their fellow humans in towns of such size. I would not wish him a visit to a large American city - it would probably break his heart. Socks was aware of America, of course, and our overbearing presence on the planet, though he did not characterize his awareness as such. He did, most innocently I must say, ask about our president and why he went to war. A difficult question to answer and we found ourselves immediately distancing ourselves from the actions of our government in the world. People really want to know what GW is thinking when he acts the way he does, and we Americans from San Francisco (or Boston or Lafayette) could only offer our own frustration and confusion with the current regime. We thus far have been fortunate to meet people that don't judge Americans by the actions of the American government.
The afternoon sun was reaching down toward the western horizon as we made our way back to the lodge. Jayne and I decided to have a cocktail before cleaning up for dinner. Jayne bravely ordered a White Russian and our amiable bartender bravely tried to make one. I'm not quite sure what happened, but soon the bartender came back from the kitchen with cake mix, or some crazy thing like that, before Jayne called her off. The resulting drink must not have been too bad; Jayne drank it (no cake mix, of course, I'm pretty sure that would have ruined it). The bar being well stocked, but not with vermouth, I settled for a gin and tonic. Martinis are best left for my return home. I'm okay with that.
Twilight was enveloping the lagoon as we retired to our chalet to freshen up and enjoy the delights of indoor plumbing. How many places can you take a shower in front of a picture window and not feel like one should at least be paid for the indignation? The Xugana Lodge "rocks", as the youngsters like to say.
The lodge has a sixteen bed capacity, and during our visit here, the lodge has not been not been filled even to that meager accommodation. Last evening there were only two other guests outside our tribe, a lawyer and novelist from New York. Compared to the unsociable Germans they had to endure through dinner the evening before our arrival, we were just "the bomb" (once again, youth talk - why, when I was a kid, saying "the bomb" meant something quite different). We enjoyed cocktails by the fire and a fine dinner full of good food and spirited conversation; Then some coffee back by the fire and off to our turned-down, mosquito-netted beds.
This evening we are joined by two executives from the company that owns this lodge, one being the actual president of Desert & Delta Safaris. They are accompanied by their twenty-year-old Canadian bush pilot. Hearing young Tom the bush pilot talk of flying brought me back to my flying days back in 'Nam... Oh sorry, I mean my student flying days back in San Carlos. Bringing in my stealthy Piper Cherokee to a smooth landing... Oh, sorry, I mean flaring a little too high and stalling the plane while it was still ten feet off the ground. Hey, anybody can get a plane off the ground and keep it in the air - it's the landing that gets a little tricky. (Do I need to remind everyone that a landing is really nothing more than a controlled crash? I didn't think so...)
Anyway, I needed to brag that I used to fly, leading Nancy and me into a private discussion of flight school, terrorists, and September 11th. Engaging, if not entirely pleasant, so we changed the subject.
That whole world seemed a million miles away as the drums sounded announcing that dinner was ready. We all headed off to the dinner table to listen to our nervous host announce the menu for the evening. Another fine meal.
Botswana sits on a mantle of sand three to four hundred feet deep. Underneath all that sand the earth is alive with seismic activity; earthquakes measuring 6 or 7 on the Richter scale happening every few weeks. Now, I've experienced a 7 earthquake. One in which the epicenter was some seventy or more miles away from where my frightened, shaking carcass lay waiting for the end to come - talk about a rude awakening.
In Botswana, you don't feel it so much when the earth starts to shake. But one edge of the delta that has been dry for years suddenly floods, and another part that has always had water just as suddenly dries up. Such is the consequence of the rumblings beneath our feet. Jayne and I travel 12,000 miles only to remain on unstable ground. It really feels like home here, I guess. Perhaps there is no stable ground anywhere.
Anyway, this was the general conversation at the after-dinner fireside as the president of Desert & Delta Safaris and the other locals discussed the current conditions of the delta and how it all effected business.
From here Bill (our very own president of Wilderness Travel Adventure) entered the conversation and the intricacies of doing business in Botswana were thrashed out, as well as international business dealings in general. In a country where there is little privately held land, it did seem to be a challenge, but one our new friend of obvious substantial wealth, even by American standards, bore well.
This was all pretty interesting stuff, but whether from the smoke wafting my direction, or some other cause, my nose was exploding and I was soon compelled to retire for the evening.
Jayne and I made leave of the assembled guests and Alwyn escorted us back to our chalet.
Now I am here with you, gentle reader, in the chill of the late hour, the mysterious sounds of an African winter night lulling me into a dreamlike haze; where imagination meets reality.
But I'm not really imagining this, am I? This is the Africa that works.
More tales from the bush soon...
