lumière des étoiles

More Fun Than a Live-Aid Concert
2004-08-29 10:54 p.m.

We're back, still a little wobbly. The beach was the best place to relax and settle back in, though I wish we could have stayed longer than we did. Got back late Friday, and thanks to Andrew, didn't have to go through the joys of NY/NJ public transportation to get back to the beloved apt.

We've certainly had enough of airports for now, having been through five in two months. Don't worry, that will wear off at the end of next month and we'll be itching to be somewhere in transit again soon.

The culture shock is subsiding, though not as much as I'd like it to considering that I started crying today when I was watching a woman talk about her dead soldier son on CBS World News Tonight. I'm still so fragile from this massive shift. The woman was holding a big poster of her son, marching in protest of the president's visit. The march seemed to have thousands from what I saw on TV, and that made me calm down a bit, especially since it was getting so much air time. There was another March for Women's Lives in the city this weekend as well that we nearly attended but decided against after considering that even the supermarket felt "too crowded" for us the other day. We didn't want to freak out and ruin everyone's good time.

I'm still driving like a gran on the highway (one happily forgets how aggressive and tightly packed everyone is on the road here when in a place that doesn't have many cars). I still get sleepy around 10:30 and find myself wide awake at 6 am. When I told this to my mom, concern in my voice, she laughed. "So you're sleeping/waking cycle is that of a normal person's now", she said. Yes, but when will I write?, I asked her. I guess since school is starting again this is all to my and Steve's benefit. But the wee hours are oh so fun and creative for us. Poo.

On the plane, which offered satellite TV and your own little personal screen (don't you just love that?) I watched a special about "Hollywood Spirituality" and the pop Kabbalah..."movement". They showed paparazzi photos of beautiful, fabulously fashionable people coming out of the West Hollywood Kabbalah Center. The Center has developed a million dollar business selling paraphernalia and Kabbalah bottled mineral water to Ashton Kutcher and all his friends. And since they file with the gov't as a religious organization, they don't have to pay taxes.

Apparently TARGET started selling those red string bracelets that Madonna and Lindsey Lohan and Britney Spears wear to ward off evil spirits or something. They have not started selling T-Shirts with Kabbahlist symbols on them as of yet, but not to worry. Madonna, who apparently now goes by Esther, has helped even us little people on our path to spiritual enlightenment by making it easy for us to find such a thing. All you have to do is simply buy a $300 ticket for a shit seat at one of her 45 minute concerts and make your way over to a merchandise booth, where you can buy said T-Shirt for $45, or a book of Kabbalah for $175. Isn't she the greatest? And just in case you think Esther isn't doing something good with all that money she's getting, rest assured: she's starting up a Kabbalah day school for kids in New York City. And everyone knows what New York City needs is another private school for kids of wealthy celebrity families!!!! Oh Esther, where have you been all our lives?

What's sad is that when we should have a cultural movement toward speaking up and speaking out, considering our current extremely polarized political climate, we have a cultural movement that isn't about culture, but commodity, that isn't about protest or interest or even surface concern, but self-obsession, appearances, A-List BS and who all the cool kids on the block are worshipping this week. We got a drink with a musician friend at a bar tonight that was showing MTV's video music awards, and we all had to turn our backs because it made us sick. I'm disgusted that no one had much to say beyond "IT'S COOL TO VOTE, YO!" because the "artist's" publicists wag their fingers at them and say it's bad, very bad, to say anything "too extreme" (like "stop the war". Remember when Michael Moore said that at some awards show and everyone booed, because it "wasn't the time or place" for "such a speech"?). I'm disgusted that the Disney canned teen machine is still so powerful, hypnotizing young people until they buy buy buy. I'm disgusted that it's pointless to have an awards show when all the artists use the same production company to write their songs for them. I'm disgusted with the fluffy lack of content. I'm disgusted that at 26, I'm "too old" for it, that none of it speaks to me, that I'm older than everyone performing (with the exception, how pathetic, of Stevie Wonder or Lenny Kravitz, who's just a fossil at thirty-something). I'm disgusted that since the average mainstream performer age is 22, most of the thematic or lyrical content is crap about getting dumped or bragging about your car.

Where's their Bowie? I asked Steve the other day; Where's their Siouxsie Sioux? Their Bjork? Their Chuck D? They don't have one, he replied, too much experimentation, too much of a voice, too much artistry can never generate enough income to pay back the million dollar cash advances the record companies have given them. Muted complacency is the pits. Spinelessness is sad. I hope something happens soon so that all these stepford-bands go away.

I'm overloaded with thoughts, as is probably quite obvious here, and can't sort them out because my mind is still somewhere in the middle of the Okavango Delta. I've been writing a lot lately, getting my travel journal into my computer. I think it's part escape and part fear; I'm desperate to escape the fact that the RNC is here in NYC this week - and I can't take the hypocrisy of this Kerry smear campaign that our administration "has nothing to do with" (please). I'm afraid that if I don't transpose it all soon, I'll lose it and it will fade into nothingness. So here's another clip, and we'll chat again soon since it's way past my current bedtime.

Day: 18

Time: 4:45

Date: August 13, 2004

Place: Maun, Botswana

Journey: Resting in Maun

This morning we got a lecture about animal behavior from some South African guy who sounds suspiciously Australian to me. Alfred told me that the Australian ex-pats like to pretend they know a lot about animals, but they can't possibly know as much as someone like Wayne, who grew up in Durban on a game ranch. I was skeptical about Alfred's claims of Wayne's abilities until one day, Wayne spun the car around so fast I thought I was going to be sick. Before we could ask he volunteered his reasoning. "Listen to the Baboons, hey." ("Hey" in SA = "OK" in US) They were screaming a bit more than usual. "And look at the giraffe". Mr. Giraffe and Mrs. Zebra were intently staring westward. They didn't even notice our little car, and they didn't move a muscle. They were still, frozen, even as our tires screeched through the dirt. Wayne floored it and sure enough, not even a mile away, a beautiful leopard strutted out into the roadway. We would have missed it if Wayne hadn't picked up on the signs the other animals were displaying. "WAYNE SPEAKS BABOON! HA HA HA!" Joe yells. I shush him and Steve sticks his whole body out the window to get a shot. I'm captivated by the cat's musculature, by its nonchalance in crossing the roadway. He gives us a brief glance but doesn't pause, and disappears into the bush.

So back to that lecture - I make a mental note to double check with Wayne whatever Mr. Buddy is telling us. We've hired a company, Delta Rain, to take us into the Okavango Delta, and Buddy runs their trips out of the campground we've landed in for a few days. The gov't of Botswana makes it IMPOSSIBLE for independent travelers to get into the Delta on their own. In fact, even Delta Rain and Mr. Buddy can't be our sole guides; "locals" (read: native Botswanans) must be hired. I'm fine with this, actually I prefer it - I already don't like Mr. Buddy and am a bit thrown off about how segregated these communities still are. I miss being embedded in local communities the way we were in Ghana, when we were working along side the people of Amfoeta Tsebe, talking to them everyday. If I wanted to hangout with a bunch of travelers and/or ex-pats, I would have stayed at the hostel or just gone to New York City for the month.

In that way Botswana has taken care of itself and its people, and this is why they've been so successful when economies and whole countries around them, including even South Africa, have crumbled. It's hard for the independent traveler just to get around the country, making group tourism a profitable business, creating local jobs and massive conservation efforts. I only wish other African countries would follow their lead before most of this beauty gets thoroughly destroyed.

So once again, this lecture. If I see an Elephant, I'm to first back away slowly, then run, stripping off pieces of clothing and dropping them on the ground behind me as I go. Elephants can see well, apparently, and they'll assume the clothes on the ground are you. When they stop to investigate, I can make my get away. If I see a Lion, the last thing I'll want to do is turn and run, since that facilitates the Lion's instinctual chase mode. I'm to face it, Buddy says, but not look it in the eye. Hopefully, it'll get bored and wander away. If confronted with a hippo, the more likely of the three to actually be confronted with, I'm to say good bye to my earthly form, as I'll soon die a painful death. Oh. Joe decides this would be a good time to pipe up with his statistic about Hippos killing more people every year than any other animal COMBINED. And that's all caps because of the way Joe talks, getting louder to emphasize points and leaning forward rhythmically to make sure we understand the severity of whatever it is he's talking about. Joe and his stats. He had one about AIDS and monkeys that scared the hell out of Christine before she left us to take off for Nairobbery.

So why the lecture? Because in the Delta, there are no campgrounds with electrified fences, like there were in Kruger National Park. When the Zebra want water in the middle of the night, they parade right past your tent. When the elephants want some leaves, they'll knock down the tree you were sitting under the day before to get it. And in the Delta, we are planning on doing a few walking safaris with those local guides. The fact that we'll be out of the car, able to walk around, able to be on foot and see a group of Zebra grazing or Elephant trudging across the veldt thrills me so much that I'm not even thinking about any danger. Joe says later over a beer at the wooden bar anyway that incidents of animals attacking camps or com-vees, like ours, are rare. Like I said, Joe and his stats.

So today is kind of an idle day, but it's a much needed one. Maun is not like Kasane, not like Nata. It's huge, and last night at the bottle store we stumbled upon an old guy playing a guitar and a woman singing to a group of people just hanging out. "It's band night", Steve said. I was beaming, and the woman singing smiled back. The whole tone of it sounded like something off one of those Rough Guides: African Music CDs that I'm so infamous for playing in my car all the time at home.

We went in to get our case of Castle beer since it was our turn to buy and we needed something that would last the several nights in the Delta. Before that trip, we went to a supermarket to stock up on food, also of the sort that will last through the trip into the Delta. Unlike Kasane or Nata, which had nice supermarkets but very slim pickins, this one had everything, and I do mean everything, we get back home. I'm guessing it's because there's a huge ex-pat population here - how else to explain the humus, the olives, the oreo cookies? Mmmm.

Once back at the camp, we sorted through what to pack up - only essentials were allowed in, and we were told only a small bag would fit into the Mokoros we had to hire to pole us through the Delta and out to the island where we were camping. Normally an average size bag was fine, but we had to bring our food and gear, so we'd have to do without most of our things. I am a little worried leaving my stuff with the campground peeps, but what other choice do I have? Besides, I don't know who would want to steal a bag full of dirty clothes and shampoo (oh yeah, no soap products at all in the Delta either, because the water there is so clean and our soap is full of so many "toxic pollutants". I'm skeptical about that last reason, but then what do I know about the delicate balance there?). The water's been deemed "safe" to drink, and while I'm sure it is, I know we're not used to the bacteria that might be living in the water, so I'm grateful for our Iodine Tablets and Tast-ez tablets (takes out the Iodine Taste. Yay!). As we were packing all that stuff away, I felt kind of crampy and ran to the bathroom. Hoo-ray, what a time to get the monthlies, as Megan said when I came out of the bathroom looking sullen. You too? I asked. She nodded. I wonder if Joe has a stat about that.

So with most of our packing done, we decided to come back into Maun today. We came flying into the center in Justice the cab driver's car. When he pulled up, Abba's greatest hits was blaring out of the back seat, and he didn't try to rip us off, so we agreed to ride with him. I had to laugh, passing through the outskirts, by mud and stick huts, cement block houses, women in traditional Namibian dress (during the Namib-SA war, many Namibians fled to Botswana and are still here) with "Dancing Queen" filling up the car.

After waiting in a twenty-minute line at the bank, begging the teller to change my otherwise worthless Zambian Kwatcha to the inflated Botswanan Pula, I met a really nice Zambian guy who directed us in beautiful English to an inexpensive, fast, and near-by internet cafe.

After a minute and a half went by and yahoo still hadn't properly loaded, I wondered if this, to him, was a "fast" connection. Once I got through, I found a new message from my brother, and a new message from Tony. Tony's was the best - just two sentences. "HEY GUYS, HOW'S AFRICA? ALDO'S BURNED DOWN AND THE GOVERNOR IS GAY. ALL MY LOVE, TONY".

The email from my brother contained his devastation at the aforementioned Aldo's, a local club, burning to the ground. "I am so sad!" he wrote, more than once. I was suddenly wistful, suddenly nostalgic and wishing I was home to go one last time before it burned down. It was, in its time, let's say circa 98-2001 (just as I was about old enough to be allowed inside) a great alternative to all the garbage cheesy places that are so ubiquitous in NJ. And in my brother's college day, circa 89-94, boy was it the happening place. His stories of bands that would play there, modern rock radio stations that would come down from NY to broadcast Saturday Night Dance Parties, would always make me play the "born too late" game with myself. I closed the emails and looked around - I wondered what was going on here in 1989, and kind of laughed at the fact that the governor’s sexuality and/or misconduct is our version of political scandal. In this part of the world, in countries only a hundred miles away from where I sit, a political scandal means no one gets water for a week, and no one dares complain.

Not exactly knowing what to do with all this info, I spare Steve the news for a few more minutes since we've been happily so far away for so long, and I wander outside to write. We're hitching a ride back to the the campground with a group of people who are, as I speak, taking a flight over the Delta to see what they can see before they go camping there in a few days. I thought that sounded like fun, but considering my dislike of small planes and lack of funds, decided against their invite. We (Steve and I, and an Aussie health inspector named Paul who just traveled through Zim ALONE and therefore deserves all my respect) will walk to Maun airport in a few minutes and wait for their flight to come down so we can squeeze into their van and save ourselves the 25 P. fare home.

The Delta awaits.