The Okavango Delta Blues

Just a brief interruption from trip stories… In planning for the trip I decided it was necessary to let the face lettuce rage (that means facial hair for all those non-bro readers) to get closer to my inner Neanderthal. By the time I touched down in Cape Town after the trip, I had a solid two week base of growth. Naturally, I trimmed all the unnecessary parts, leaving on my face the essence of what makes a man, well, a Man – the mustache. There comes a point in every young man’s life when he takes a deep look in the mirror, and wonders why the ‘stache had never been even put into action. Sporting a mustache for the first time elicited a multitude of reactions from friends on campus and at parties, but the wildest reaction came from the 6^th grade students I tutor at SHAWCO. Looking in my direction, the girls were talking in Xhosa and laughing, but it wasn’t until Unathi made the finger over upper-brow motion that I understood their amusement. The girls erupted in laughter, and it probably took about ten minutes before they got it all out. Later, it would come in handy for the ultimate peacocking experiment – my temporary fashion conversion, becoming hipster. This guy knows how to party (like an 80's pornstar):

I’m seriously considering rockin’ the mustache through the end of the semester, after hearing some positive feedback. I would love to hear other opinions – write on my facebook wall with your advice.

Now back to the trip:

Having crossed Vic Falls off the list, Botswana’s Okavango Delta was next on the grand plan. Changing plans last minute, we booked a flight at Jollyboys the night before setting off to avoid the sketchy Botswana bus system and to save time. Wake up early, hail our taximan, Bison, drive an hour to the Zam-Bots border, take a barge over the Chobe River that separates the two countries, hop in a packed minibus to Kasane, fly to Maun with Botswana Air, and finally arrive mid-afternoon. After Giulia and Camille had their way bargaining with available cabs, we settled with, as we would later discover, Maun’s coolest driver, Tokololo. By the end of the trip, we had the art of fare negotiation down to a science: Guilia and Camille’s on Wheels (nickname) would descend like bloodthirsty wild dogs, shoving their prices down the throats of sheepish drivers, all shame cast aside, while I stood back and waited to perform my duty. My role was to sit shotgun and put the charm on with small talk to prove to the driver that we know how to treat other people with respect, the ultimate redemption. It was essentially the good cop-bad cop routine in action. Tokololo drove us to our next accommodation, Old Bride Backpackers, where I chowed on a bacon cheeseburger while listening to Arlo Guthrie’s “City of New Orleans” from the bar’s speakers, we set up the tent, and capped the night off with an outdoor shower under the stars. The customary nighttime lullaby, a combination of dubstep and Young Money’s “Bedrock”, pacified our minds as we faded into a deep slumber. Good vibrations.

The next morning, we wake up before sunlight to get all of our gear in line for the three-day mokoro (canoe) trip into the pristine Okavango Delta. Our early morning exuberance, together with a little more dubstep, caused an older dude in a tent nearby to say, “Why don’t you go to the bathroom, there’s no one sleeping there!” So unchill. We packed our backpacks and 25 liters of water into the speedboat that would take us to Boro, a small village whose existence is significantly realized through the tourist industry. Of the approximately 400 people living in Boro, at least 250 are mokoro guides. Boro is the closest thing I’ve seen to a traditional, rural African village that still has thatched-roof huts, no roads, and a toilet that is just a hole in the ground. After relieving ourselves, we headed to the mokoros to meet our two guides, Simon (guy) and Neyo (girl).

Simon was an absolute riot, even if the humor was completely unintentional, and most times this just included his ordinary responses and normal demeanor. For example, when you offered him any type of food, his automatic response was, “YES!?!”, which had the tonal inflection of both enthusiasm and seemed like he was posing a question. Throughout the trip, our topics of conversation included life in Boro, the WWE and famous wrestlers like John Cena, the political system in Botswana, and his favorite music (apparently people go ham for Akon in Bots). Neyo did practically nothing for three days straight, besides being flipped into the Delta with her clothes on when Camille was learning how to pole (row the mokoro). After poling us to the campsite area, she sat around the campsite while Simon would take us on game walks and to the swimming area. Their grasp of the English language was somewhat limited, so often times Simon would respond in ways that didn’t really make sense. Also, Simon briefed us a few times during the trip, using words that were fairly sophisticated, but seemed oddly unnecessary. It was common for him to describe our game walks by saying something like, “We will depart at seven. We will then proceed to circumnavigate the surrounding area to be able to witness some of the diverse landscapes. Our walk will terminate with the setting of the sun, approximately three hours.” Those briefings are extremely hilarious in hindsight. There would be times during the walk where he would describe something specific about a plant, for example, and it felt like he was making it up as he went along, because his short phrases were separated by relatively long pauses. I would say that the little aspects of our trip, like meeting Bison, Tokololo, and Simon, or struggling with the various transportation modes outweighed the larger things you would expect to define a trip of this nature, like herds of elephants or Vic falls.

At the Delta, we went on three game walks, did a sunset mokoro cruise at the hippo pool, went swimming at the waterhole, wrote boatloads of haikus (pun intended), and sang endless verses of the Delta Blues. One night, we were abruptly awoken by the loud snapping of branches in the vicinity of our campsite, and immediately thought an elephant was going on a late night stroll. The next morning, Simon investigated and reported back that a hippo had walked through on his way back to the pool, before dropping his load about 15-yards from our tent. It was probably best we stayed in the tent and did not investigate ourselves, because if you get between the hippo and the water it can react extremely aggressively – hippos kill the most humans out of any Africa animal. The sun was intensely bright, the sunsets were just as majestic as the Lion King portrays, and the full moon lit up the nighttime Delta, during which the high pitch of croaking frogs contrasted the punctuated, booming rumble of hippo calls.


Here's a small sampling of our haikus:

Exemplifying Giulia and Camille's inner cheapskate:

Bitch at the hostel

Ripped us out of our kwacha

Haggle with workers.

Our dubstep alarm, the guy who yelled at us, and dining and dashing due to poor service:

Cockadoo-dubstep

No one’s sleeping at the bar

Pay for toast, bitch please!

Me fulfilling the good cop routine:

Hey Tokololo,

I’ll pay you extra Pula.

Why? cuz you’re a bro.

Guilia Judas-ing Camille to the baboons:

Dog eat dog nation

She used me as a baboon-

Shield! Watch your back

The joke of using the highly inflated kwacha outside Zambia never gets old:

Hey Tokololo

Take us to the market, please

You take kwacha right?

Referring to me at the zam-zim border:

Lets cross the border,

Pics of Zambia police!

No, they kill your face.

Victoria Falls: The Land of Double Rainbows

We set out from Cape Town International Airport early the morning of March 31, had a layover in Jo’burg, and arrived in Livingstone, Zambia midday giving us enough time to drop our stuff at Jollyboys Backpackers then catch our first of many taxi rides from Bison to Victoria Falls. One of our cab drivers back in CT, Marshall, had sent us off giving us the responsibility of reporting back whether Table Mountain of Vic Falls was a more impressive natural feature. I can say that Vic Falls is a better one-time visit due to its sheer colossal size and beauty, but that Table is better for multiple trips because of the various trails and hiking never gets old. After taking out 400,000 of the heavily inflated kwacha currency (~$80), I was ready to make it rain all over Livingstone. Walking through the Zambian side viewing trail for the falls was quite an unexpected escapade, the place was essentially a natural water park. There are dry areas on the trail, but getting completely drenched is unavoidable with the monsoon rains that are created from the splash of the falls hitting the pool below and rising hundreds of feet into the air. One day in and half my clothes were already soaked – I had a very limited wardrobe to limit space.

For Day 2, we embarked to Zimbabwe for the more popular Victoria Falls Park. Zimbabwe, the country infamous for its violently repressive and obdurate dictator, Robert Mugabe, and unimaginable hyperinflation, which peaked in ’08-09 – bills printed were as high as 100 trillion Zim dollars (I bought a 500 billion as a souvenir). Learning about the history of Zimbabwe’s torture factories used to intimidate voters and punish dissidents, the Gukurahundi genocide, and widespread police corruption under Mugabe’s leadership induced what I’ll call the Zim paranoia-complex. Passing from Zambia into Zimbabwe as our first overland crossing was definitely a little unnerving, even though the park is literally just over the border. Before crossing the Zambian side into No Man’s Land (NML), fortified by a barbed wire fence, security shed, and AK-47 clad border police, I thought it was a good scene for a Kodak moment. Bad F***ing idea. With death stares, the two soldiers angrily called me over and made me delete the photo. I definitely felt fortunate that my camera did not get smashed in the severity of my mistake.

Now that the nerves were given a bit of a shock, the sketchy half-mile walk through NML intensified the Zim paranoia-complex. Compared to the U.S., the border security seemed laughable, although we encountered some unexpected security forces in NML. In the distance we could see baboons raiding the line of 18-wheeler trucks, which probably contained some sort of food, and knowing of their aggressive tendencies, this was a little intimidating. Finally coming within sight of the Zim immigration check, a baboon jumps the fence probably 20 feet behind us. The adrenaline spike causes Giulia to have a minor panic and she just about starts to book, using Cams as a shield (not a good idea to run) when Camille, the cool and collected nature whisperer, boldly, but stealthily projects “Don’t run! Don’t run!” Gradually we clear the baboon threat by power walking, the heart rate settles, and we reach immigration. I avoided another minor disaster here through one of my emergency preparation strategies. Zim would not accepted the highly inflated kwacha, ironically enough, but luckily the 300 rand I had stored under the insole of my shoe in a duct tape pouch was accepted and coincidentally the exact amount.

The Zim side was incredibly beautiful and the falls overpowering, without the torrential downpours that characterized the Zam side. It was like the magic of Narnia and Hogwarts combined to create the Land of Double Rainbows, as the mist was penetrated by intense sunlight, fracturing the light beams into the full spectrum of colors (I’ll have to confirm the science here with Bill Nye). Seeing the most distinct and prevailing colors ever from a rainbow with the mighty falls in the background was quite the delight. Bison kept his word and was at the spot he had left us earlier to bring us back to Jollyboys, where we could rest up for the next leg of the journey: the Okavango Delta in Botswana.

Preface to my southern African adventure

Whereas paying a tour company to guide us on a prearranged itinerary through some of southern Africa’s major attractions seems ideal to most inexperienced travelers, Camille, Giulia, and I decided the “free-balling” approach to discovering a few of the lower continent’s gems would be a bit more audacious. No, we didn’t exactly “go commando” the entire trip, but by free-balling I mean our plans were flexible and not at all set in stone, we were just out to blaze our own trail. The plans for getting from place to place and arranging activities at each destination were a bit fuzzy. After reading in travel guides lines like “The public bus from Maun to Nata runs infrequently, on unstable road systems, and will leave once the bus fills completely”, you are kind of left wondering if you’ll end up stuck in some sticks town in Botswana (which almost happened) – not the most reassuring guidelines to say the least. The never-ending streak of logistical difficulties that we dealt with (which are otherwise taken care of by professional tour companies) including modes of transportation, currency issues, security precautions, and accommodation decisions, although stressful, were quite rewarding and afforded boatloads of experience for traveling solely with a backpack. Spontaneity was unavoidable and uncertainty often clouded each leg of the journey. I can unhesitatingly say our trip was completely fulfilling and surprised me in unexpected ways. Here’s a small sampling of the chaos:

We took about eight different forms of transport: Large and small airplanes, public bus, minibus, taxi, various hitchhiking cars, mokoro, and speed boat.

Our math was put to the test using four different currencies (South African rand, US dollar, Zambian kwacha, and Botswana pula)

Crossed international borders five times (also with an unofficial landing in Namibia)

Stayed at five different hostel/lodge/campsite accommodations

Hitchhiked from the first time (and 2^nd, 3^rd, 4^th, 5^th, and 6^th time)

The numbers are daunting given the trip was only 11 days, but the real benefits came from the personal encounters and immersing ourselves in some of the facets of daily life in each country, notably transportation systems and their operators. I can look back and remember calling Tokololo in Botswana or Bison in Zambia for taxi rides, or Thomas and his wife who were nice enough to hitchhike us nearly three hours, or our mokoro guide Simon in the Okavanga Delta. It was our first encounter with “real” Africa – not as real as the child soldiers of Joseph Kony’s Lord’s Resistance Army in Uganda, but also not as developed or Westernized as Cape Town and much of South Africa. Our first destination, Livingston, Zambia, the tourist hub for Victoria Falls, was the perfect example of what I’m talking about. Here, roads were in disrepair - full of potholes, covered in dirt - and informal exchange and the taxi service seemed to dominate the economy. You don’t drink the tap water, you need a yellow fever certificate for entry, and malaria is still a threat. After spending a day here, however, you realize that your fear of theft is unwarranted and the place is safe and security not a major issue – unlike Jo’burg, which is “the murder capital of the world”, and theft is prevalent.

Traveling with Giulia and Camille was both a blessing and a curse, and that’s me being mild in my judgments. First, their inclination to get down and dirty camping style is not really one of their main features as human beings (as it is for me – the sketchy spot being case in point), and they can often be disagreeable with nature. Although, I must say they handled the tent life (no mattress) rather admirably, with few occasional rants of displeasure. Secondly, with Giulia outpacing Camille, they are literally some of the cheapest, most heartless bargainers/travelers, and have little shame in haggling a cab driver to reduce a fare from 6,000 kwacha to 5,000, even if it is equivalent to only $0.20. We may not see eye to eye on the ethics of free market capitalism, but the savings I incurred from these shrewd calculators saved me a pretty penny without burdening my conscience. Lastly, both are socially conscious humanities majors, with vocal feminist beliefs (as any human should have), again exemplifying the case of the double-sided coin. On the head’s side, we discussed and thought about social phenomena in new and interesting ways atypical to everyday conversation. On the tail’s side, I could easily be judged by using one of my many common phrases like “You chug water like a girl”. All in all, bitchez got jokes for days, and there was never a dull moment between the three of us.

If I had to sum up our trip in one title, I might call it “The Beautiful Disaster: the endless streak of make-or-break moments” or maybe “Tangled Up in Tokololo”. I trust this preface hyped you up as much as the Hunger Games preview, Oh Em GEEEEE!

Bring it Africa, I Ain't scurrred

Here’s a brief update before Camille, Giulia, and I head off on the journey to end all journeys, on which we hope to discover the real National Geographic-type Africa. That’s right, out into the bush where you bury your shit and it’s every man for himself. You know what I’m talking about - lions, elephants, hippos, serene sunsets, endless blue skies, midnight light show with millions of stars, and that one giant tree amidst a lush expanse of grasses and bush. With 10 days of travel, one backpack each, and the slight uncertainty of transportation through Zambia, Zimbabwe, and Botswana, this treacherous expedition will sure to be full of surprise and most likely mishap. Lucky for us, however, we’re on a mission from God.

The itinerary goes as follows: Tomorrow at 7am, we’re flying to Livingstone, Zambia and staying in a dorm-style hostel. We’ll spend roughly two days doing activities (not sure which yet) at Victoria Falls, the world’s largest waterfall – could potentially walk with lions, bungee jump, ride an elephant, white water rafting, among other options. From Zambia we’ll take a public bus, first over the border to Kasane then to Maun, both in Botswana. Maun is essentially the tourist headquarters of the Okavanga Delta, the world’s largest inland river delta, which is a maze of lagoons, channels, and islands.

The Delta attracts an enormous concentration of animals, as it is an oasis of vegetation and water surrounded by sparse, dry areas, especially the Kalahari Desert to the south. Animals here are really anything you could imagine: Elephant, giraffe, hippo, buffalo, lion, and the wild African dog, to name a small sample. According to Camille’s friend who had done a similar trip, the hostel in Maun is beautiful and well managed. But we will be staying little time at the hostel, instead taking a guided three-day mokoro (traditional dug-out canoe) trip into the delta where we will camp. It’ll probably be nuts, berries, and water for three days straight because we chose the cheaper self-catered option. Time to get REAL Stone Age if you know what I’m saying. Trying to get real in touch with nature, maybe covering my body in mud like Arnold Schwarzenegger in Predator or perhaps doing a little Patrick Swayze Roadhouse­-style tai chi, but most likely doing something realistic like raising a lion cub on some mountainous outcrop with Elton John singing in the background. Sorry readers if I overwhelm you with creativity, I even amaze myself sometimes.

The next leg of the trip will take us to Kasane and the Chobe River, again via some sort of sketch Botswana bus, where we hope to camp right on the river, although it’s first come, first serve. I joked with Giulia earlier that all the cheap accommodations would be filled when we get there and we’ll be forced to splurge on some ultra luxurious riverside chalet that is the only vacancy. Things are bound to go wrong, as most camping trips usually do, but I guess this potential calamity wouldn’t be too bad. Chobe River houses massive herds of elephants, and according to Lonely Planet, “you are almost guaranteed a close up encounter” and “being surrounded by a large herd is an awe-inspiring (and somewhat terrifying) experience”. Land rover drives and motorboat game excursions are the typical mode of elephant encounters. #winning.

Coming full circle, we’ll bus back to Livingstone for one last night and fly back the next day, hopefully with all our possessions, sanity, and life-changing stories. Oh yea, maybe a few “trippy” stories to tell about our anti-malarial drug use whose potential side effects include something like minor hallucinations and slight mania. For those looking forward to pics, rest assured that the three of us will take plenty, and I will definitely have some video footage (that I currently am unable to upload to the web) that I can show when back in the States. Again, for the worrisome, sleep easy knowing that we’re on a mission from God (and lucky for Camille and Giulia, Jesus happens to be my homeboy).

A Taste of Township Life: Volunteering with SHAWCO

I’ll interrupt my string of brain-cell-killing stories to describe my experiences and impressions of volunteering in Masizame, a township community where I tutor sixth grade students in Math and English. Going in, we were told to expect the learning levels of the students to be shockingly low, and that it may be somewhat difficult to communicate as the native language is Xhosa (pronounced Kosa, with a mild click on the K-sound). Yes, Xhosa is an African language with clicks, but they are not continuous, instead varying click-sounds added on to some words. There are maybe 1-2 clicks per sentence. English is taught as a second language, and courses are taught fully in English only when the students reach high school. Our group has around twenty student volunteers for about sixty 6^th grade students, so each volunteer pairs up with two or three students. On Tuesdays (Math) and Thursdays (English), I work with Erica and Unathi (silent h), and Vuyolwethu (“Vuvu”) joins the group for Thursdays. Erica is a bit shy in front of me, and a little self-conscious when I check over her work, but I can tell she feels a little more comfortable each time we meet. Unathi is much more social and extremely dedicated to learning, going back to redo her mistakes even after we’ve gone through them together. Vuvu is the ultimate bro of Masizame. We’ve played and talked about soccer, can agree that Messi is God’s gift to the game, and hatched out a secret handshake.

Arriving for the first day of volunteering was a very awkward feeling. Aside from the twenty some-odd volunteers, the environment was totally alien – kids from highly disadvantaged backgrounds staring at you and all talking in an unfamiliar tongue, thinking all the while they are talking about you. You adapt your world to theirs and imagine a poorly performing public school in New York City: lack of discipline, no desire to learn, general enmity from students, etc. The first day we play games in the schoolyard to break the ice and hopefully meet some of the kids. With no teacher supervision, it was incredibly reassuring to see how relatively disciplined the kids were while playing games that were fairly chaotic by nature – i.e. reverse leapfrog: forming a line and spreading your legs so the last person in line could crawl through everyone’s legs in a race. Almost immediately, I felt comfortable with the kids and the realization sets in that they are no different than kids anywhere else in the world – tell jokes with each other, find overwhelming joy with simple competition, and try to impress the volunteers because, by virtue of our age, we are automatically “cool” in their eyes.

Unfortunately, the school is separate from the township community so we don’t exactly know what the students’ daily life is like or the living conditions where they come from. Most students do not have an abundance of clothes – Vuvu has worn the same Pokemon shirt multiple days – but the kids are fed properly. I get the impression that Masizame is a more affluent township as compared to one like Khayelitsha, which is the largest in South Africa, based on the student’s behaviors, manners, and attitudes. However, as often is the case, impressions can be far from realities. Here in SA, I’ve found perceptions and impressions can be far from the truth, and many times appearances can be incredibly deceiving. I think back to the family of four I met on the Metrorail and how I thought about them, and how my impressions were way off.

The students tend to be stronger in Math, but they are a bit behind the standard sixth grade level, as simple multiplication, such as 9 x 3, is not committed to memory. Due to their use of English as a second language, they struggle with writing to a greater extent than Math. Communicating with the kids is actually quite easy and they have a firm grasp of conversational English. The problem arises when they have to translate their thoughts to writing. Grammar, punctuation, spelling, sentence structure, and so on, are severely lacking and these things are much harder to correct with the hour-long time period we spend with them each Thursday. SHAWCO (Students’ Health and Welfare Centers Organization) is completely student run so the curriculum and organization is often times improvisational. The group’s leadership is shuffled as students graduate, curricula changes, and the volunteers can very often be thrown in with little training. Even when volunteers feel a bit discouraged by all these logistical issues, you have to remember that your time is very valuable to these kids – one-on-one tutoring is very motivating, even speaking English with them is helpful, and this is a rare opportunity for them to come in contact with someone outside their communities.

The last time I volunteered with my group, Unathi asked me how many children I had, and I told her five. Awestruck, her eyes widened and jaw dropped, until I told her I really had none. Then they asked if I was married…Nope. Fielding these questions for the first time, I started to feel old and unaccomplished(?), but also confused as to how old they thought I was. They guessed 23, then 21, which made me feel better. Then Vuvu suggested I marry Chelsea, another volunteer he works with on Tuesdays, and I told him I’d try my luck (Chelsea thought I was from the South based on my accent, strangely enough). All these impressions remind me of a time I was tutoring small groups at a Buffalo public school, and the 9^th grade students I was with thought I looked like I could be on the Jersey Shore. No idea what they saw in me, because I don’t blow-out my hair like Pauly-D (or where gel at all), don’t have any tattoos or piercings, have pale skin (especially in winter), and don’t have the guns to match up to Ronnie. Or maybe I am just ignorant of my own personality, appearance, and fist-pumping abilities. Regardless, the disparity between perception/impressions and reality can often be shocking.

Camille’s 21st Birthday: The Night Morality Died

Reader discretion is advised.

Saturday March 3, Camille’s 21^st birthday, the day she would leave her youthful immaturity behind and enter womanhood - well at least that’s what was supposed to happen. (Because the drinking age is 18 in SA, 21^st birthdays aren’t as geared towards suicidal intoxication, rather a “separating from your parents” rite of passage). Her special day would unfold with unusual irregularity: Cape Town’s Gay Parade and Pride Festival (with unique orgy sighting), midday margaritas, Pregame Braai (BBQ) tailgate, the Cape Town Stormers Rugby match, and an afterparty that bordered on bestiality. After the absolute human carnage of WWI, German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche had written “God is Dead” to capture the inexplicable moral disorientation and catastrophic psychological trauma of the post-war European consciousness. And if God died after WWI, then Jesus most definitely bit the dust on March 3, 2012.

I felt really amped to chronicle this one. The pregame tailgate was pretty standard procedure, although it was a bit sporadic and we didn’t exactly have the time to grill. I concocted loads of jungle juice – vodka, white wine, Twist soda (which rivals Mountain Dew), pears, green apples, lemons, and kiwi – and Margaritas, and Giulia made a lovely Sangria. You don’t see the typical 30-rack of Blue Light or PBR that is everywhere at Buffalo Bills games here. They only sell beer in quantities of 12 and it’s tough to transport longer distances, so we stick to mixed drinks and wine here. After getting nice and slippery from the tailgate, we made our way to the Newlands Stadiums to see Cape Town Stormers take on rivals Durban Sharks in front of an a crowd of nearly 50,000 fans. We ended up moving closer to the pitch for the second half in front of a Dad and 5-year old son who got a kick out of American fans who didn’t exactly know what was going on. They even gave me an extra flag to wave at big plays. Some of the people at our tailgate went to the game hoping to find scalpers, instead found free tickets and then were invited to box seats with some guy, where they gorged themselves with endless cocktail shrimp and finger foods and an open bar. Compared to going to a Cuse game (~$30 ticket, $6 beer), Stormers games are dirt-cheap with tickets at $12 and beer about $1.75. Awesome way to kick off the night.

Because we live only a two-minute walk from the stadium it only seemed right that we should throw an afterparty. It may have been an intimate gathering of about 20-25 people, but there was nothing cozy about the savagery that would unfold. Hide ya kids, hide ya wife, and hide ya husband too cuz they rapin’ errrybody! Sebastian, inebriated and expressing uncharacteristic aggressiveness, attempted to get a swig from the Vodka bottle when it slipped from his hands, smashing onto the brick floor and spewing glass and liquid everywhere. In overly misogynistic fashion, Sebastian screamed at Petra to get the broom and clean up his mess, and for fear of her wellbeing, Petra acquiesced.* Meanwhile, Emil and I hop on this perfect Kodak moment, getting down on all fours like two African lions at the drinking hole. Being the Shaggy-like character that he is, Seb clumsily “lost his balance,” falling onto the broom that he so angrily forced onto Petra, snapping it in two. It’s amazing how much glass we have broken in our house, I should really call it “cheap plastic” like the glass swan that Beez so famously juggled and voluntarily let drop to the floor to test its durability. We should really add up a tally of all that has been broken – 5-6 glasses, vodka bottle, broom, plastic bowl – give it three more months and we will definitely be out of our security deposit.

What followed was a montage of epic photo scenes and short movies taken pretty much by everyone, which were hilarious when watched the next morning. The chronology is a bit fuzzy here, and reasonably so. Petra took the opportunity to get her revenge by stabbing the spear, newly fashioned from the broken broom, into Seb’s heart. Ngoni took the same prop, instead using it to shove up Seb’s rear orifice while he was doing a pull-up and getting “personal” with Emil. At some point, someone put on the “Night Man Cometh” song from TV show It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, affording the perfect opportunity for a spontaneous shirtless sing-a-long amidst nightly showers (Nice alliteration, FIFTY POINTS GRYFFINDOR!). Next, Camille, a third-year Yale student, one of the dumbest people I know, literally dumb as rocks, almost Miss Teen South Caroline 2007 stupid (youtube video), would receive the birthday gift of a lifetime. Unlike the vast majority of sixth graders across the nation, Camille had never been invited to join the pen15 club (read #1 from UrbanDictionary). Naturally, for her 21^st birthday, her ascent to womanhood would include an invitation to join such a prestigious club as PEN15. Eager to join a new club, she willingly accepted the invitation, and was initiated with writing across her forehead. Congratulations Camille, and welcome to adulthood. To cap off the glorious photo/movie-shoot, a group shot was the only thing that made sense. I took the picture and it reminds me of one of those Real World MTV shots.

From here the party died down and all the visitors left, but the show would go on for all those people who are lucky enough to call themselves residents, also know as the “Albion Road Swaggers”. After hanging at the outside patio in a lightly misting rain for a couple hours, we moved the party inside, and the guys took off their shirts. The next logical step in the night’s sequence was for Emil, Seb, and me to strip down to our skivvies, ambush Giulia in her sleep and make her slap the bag (Google image). With all of us jumping on her bed, she tilted her head back to have a refreshing chug of boxed white wine, and I was in control of the nozzle. My aim was a bit off and the wine trickled over her bed and T-shirt, leaving Giulia helpless and devastated. Like the beast awoken from slumber, Giulia exacted her revenge by showering me with the bag of wine until every last drop was funneled out. Her actions were appalling. Instead of putting a damper on the night, the slap the bag episode gave new life to the drunken camaraderie, drawing now the remaining four of us to play Kings in the living room.

At this point, the selection of alcohol and drinks to mix with was severely limited, so we had to use a bit of creativity in our bartending. Peer pressure unveiled her familiar face, as I was persuaded to take a shot of vodka with olive oil and Emil would down one with Braai marinade. Then we concocted a barbaric drink that may or may not have included random soda, liquor, white wine, and a half eaten chicken wing bone from the post-rugby match grilling. We were all just thankful to be able to live to tell the tale. We woke up the next morning, and what we saw was nothing short of an absolute warzone – dishes everywhere, the remains of food from the grill, spilled drinks everywhere (some on purpose, some accidental), broken glass and other implements. All the brain-cell killing activity that occurred the night before failed to hold us back, however. We all cleaned the place up, and decided to hike Devil’s Peak at 1pm Sunday. We hiked until 9pm, taxied home to Rondebosch with our favorite cab driver Al and his random sidekick, stopped to get SA’s equivalent of a Big Mac at Steers fast food, and finally trekked home to call it a night. Damn it feels good to be a Gangsta…

*Note to the reader: I may have taken a bit of artistic license with the characterizations of my friends.

Garden Route Roadtrip, Part I

This post is many weeks late, but because the roadtrip was so awesome it’s probably best to write something about it. Me and seven others (Seb, Amanda, Emil, Camille, Josephine, Caroline, Jan) rented a 10-seater van for a three-day trip along South Africa’s southern coast, known as the Garden Route, to explore a few of the many popular attractions. Beyond booking hostels and a bungee jump time, we just planned to wing-it with each of us having researched different POI’s along the way. We got the car Thursday, hit the road around 11am, and drove about 8 hours to our first hostel which was really close to the world’s highest bungee jump (216 meters, about the length of 2.5 football fields). We stayed at Flashpackers in Tsitsikamma National Park, which, oddly enough, felt a bit like being in the Adirondacks – thicker, deciduous forest, a bit cooler than Cape Town. Arriving later in the night we ate a quick dinner at a Marilyn Monroe/Elvis-themed diner, played pool, and relaxed around the fire at the hostel. Weary about the bungee the next morning, we packed into our dorm-style room with four bunk beds and zonked out.

Stop #1: Bungee

Waking to grey clouds in the morning and rain on the windshield for the drive to the jump point was quite a bit dismaying. The fog set heavy on the mountains alongside the road, and we wondered whether we would be jumping without being able to see. After joking about jumping naked the night before it was a bit ironic to step out of the car at 8am with my EMS Gortex jacket, literally shaking because it was that cold. TIA (this is Africa)…wtf? Slightly miraculously, after waiting about 45 minutes, the fog that had filled the gorge below the jump cleared and the air warmed to a comfortable temperature. The bungee workers strap us up into a seemingly skimpy body apparatus, brief us really quick on procedure, and take us to the center of the bridge via a grated walking bridge you could see through. Just a minor adrenaline rush to prep the mind for the real challenge, the see-through base to this walking platform had a little more give than expected.

The bungee staff bumped some up-tempo jams, helping to calm the nerves and focus attention on something besides the inevitable leap of faith. Jan, the tall German friend, provided some good entertainment expressing his fear a bit more vocally than the rest and really wearing his emotions on his face. I was the fifth to jump. The night before, I was absolutely fearless and slept like a baby. Even on the bridge, waiting anxiously as jumpers 1-4 took their turn, I was jittery, but my heart rate was fairly normal and I didn’t experience any stomach-dropping feelings. The guides stabilize and lead you to the edge, toes hang over the edge, looking down the impossible distance, this time the adrenaline rising. With an unhesitating count of “THREE, TWO, ONE” I bent my knees and vaulted out with arms extended, and that’s when it hits you. The little fear I had prior to jumping was magnified x2,000, an adrenalin surge unlike anything I’ve ever felt. Immediately you are completely dizzied - you want to scream, but can’t; want to throw up, but can’t. Bodily function seems to stop and the 5-6 second freefall feels endless. The original drop is followed by a number of recoils where you just hang in the air like at the top of a trampoline jump.

Finally I make it to the hanging phase, waiting to be reeled up by a staff member, and it starts to feel like I’m slipping through the ankle bindings – it’s at this moment of incredible insecurity that I start thinking that these may be my last seconds (rationalizing that my small feet, which were barefoot for the jump, might actually slip through). It sounds a bit over-dramatic, but these thoughts did cross my mind – the adrenalin-high added to my disorientation and panic. Keeping my ankles locked for about 50 seconds, the guy finally reaches me and locks me in, asking if I felt like I was gunna slip through. Answering with a simple “Yes” he replies that the jump company doesn’t like to tell people that the feeling is perfectly normal and would never happen. Thanks a$$holes for my unnecessary near death experience. Although, jumping shirtless and barefoot in the slightly chilled air was an unparalleled rush.

I’ll continue the roadtrip blog later…