78uuu lumière des étoiles

Dusty:Starlight:Culture



Cause I had the time to do this today
2004-08-22   2:19 p.m.

Why doesn't travelocity let you check flight dates past the end of the year? I guess it's an unrealistic question - but I like to plan ahead.

Heh.

We are considering going to Ireland around Christmas to see Joe, whom we met and then traveled with around Southern Africa, since he insisted on giving us a standing, open invitation to do so. But what will come of us next summer? Will we have a house, or go to China? Can we do both? Will we find jobs abroad, teaching for the state department? Could I be away from the fam for that long? One thing is sure - it would be a good way to force them to travel, and I know my mom is just looking for any good reason to go overseas again.

Well, we're going down to Florida tomorrow - we fly out in the AM and return next week. We still have to find a ride from LaGuardia back to our APT next week - our friends weren't exactly fighting over who'd get to do it, though I think that short straw went to Sean, if he's able, since he doesn't have that 9-5 job excuse. I'm not really worried about it, but I don't want to have to leave the car there. Someone will come through, they all owe us plenty of favors.

In my absence, I'm forcing my self to not touch the computer, check my email, or respond to students I haven't even met yet asking me about books, grading policies, and assignment schedules (no, I'm not kidding). So I will be on hiatus here for a few days, just relaxing at the semi-tropical beach and spending time with the fam.

I have decided to excerpt some of my travelogue, though, in random order, here and there, for everyone's amusement. Sorry it won't be consistent or sequential. More of this might appear sometime in December or something when I'm in to mood to transcribe it again.

For now, enjoy.

Day: 11

Time: 10:30, AM

Date: Aug 6, 2004

Place: Kazungula, Botswana

Journey: Nata, Botswana to Livingstone, Zambia via Kazungula Border Post (Zambizi River Crossing)

BrrrrRRRRR. Beyond cold last night, 40 F, but we were so close to the Kalahari desert, in the Makgadikgadi Pans. I'm just about adjusted to Winter again - the waning light, the darkness 'til 5:30 am, the frost on the outside of the tents. I'm also just about used to sleeping in a hat. But I'd take this winter any day over the Jersey kind - the sun is strong, yellow and orange, not dull, hazy and gray. It also gets up to 75/80 F-ish by noon, so we start to peel like fruit, losing the fleece, the sweater, the hat, til we're down to sleeveless shirts and linen pants.

I cooked last night at the campground, on the camping stove, Penne Vodka. Somehow, Wayne was able to gather cans of Tomato Paste, Olives, Heavy cream, and pasta for me. I needed a Garlic Clove and Parm cheese, I told him, but all he could find was a Mrs. Dash-type Garlic salt/parm cheese/Oregano bottle seasoning. Oh well, it was good anyway, and a nice departure from Warthog stew or Kudu steak. Enough with the bush meat, my stomach's been saying for days, though I must say I think I lost another pound today and Steve definitely has lost 3 or 4. I can see bones at the top of my chest, gross. I know I'm getting too skinny when we're walking in the road and Steve gets the beep-beep from the driver, not me. It's good to be plump here. But I can't stay plump here, only at home. But of course at home that's bad...sigh. I can't ever get it quite right.

It's not gotten up to a pleasant 70 F-ish. I'm writing on the banks of the Zambizi, where, of course, the ferry is down for the day. We're figuring out now what to do, how to go about our next move. It's a tap dance, a chess game, so delicate, involving so much strategy and slick moves. Let me elaborate a bit: One could easily wade across this part of the Zambizi - the one that separates Botswana from Zambia. Not even swim, WADE. So it would be quite easy and rather productive to build a little bridge. Thanks to Mugabe, however, being the illogical and unpredictable dictator that he is, that will never happen. According to AU/ANC (I think) regulations, all countries "owning" parts of the Zambizi (this would be Zam, Botswana, Namibia, and Zimbabwe, where Mugabe is "president") would have to be in agreement about such a build. But since Mugabe is, well, Mugabe, that won't happen. So the one gov't ferry, which I've read capsizes monthly, spilling cars, people, livestock, and sacks of grain out into the water below, is broken down today. Or, the driver doesn't feel much like moving today. Or, he's sick, so the boat won't run 'till he's better. Kind of funny when you consider that back home, even if someone calls out of some retail job, they have to get a fill-in person. But no...here - no driver, no border crossing.

We consider our alternatives. Drive through Zimbabwe. But that's out: another FOUR borders to get through, another visa fee to pay, and a good chance that the soldiers will be cranky or in a bad mood. Thank you, no.

Day: 11

Time: Noon

Date: Aug 6, 2004

Place: Kazungula, Zambia

Journey: Kazungula Border Post, Zambia side, to Livingstone, Zambia to see VICTORIA FALLS!!!

So...we wind up paying THIRTY FIVE USD to get ferried illegally across the water in a crappy little rowboat that someone rigged a motor up to. This is ridiculous, ludicrous, highway robbery. There are 4.3 Pula to one USD. 5 Pula buys you a beer. 7 Pula, a liter of water. 35 Pula, a REALLY NICE dinner. 100 Pula, a REALLY NICE chalet for the night with running water, a fan, and everything. So to pay the equivalent of 140 Pula for a three minute boat ride (no exaggeration!) is ridiculous. But if we don't, no Vic Falls today, and camping for in this border town (shudder shudder), hoping that tomorrow, the ferry will be running again (highly unlikely).

So, the boys will drive through Zim, meeting us on the other side in a couple of hours. I'll guess they'll have an easier time of it with South African passports and just the two of them. I can't imagine how long it would take with the three Americans, the American/Irish, and the Canadian/Australian/English (how Christine has managed to become a triple-citizen she won't disclose. I, for one, thought that was illegal). Wayne tells me to get through border control and then look around for an old Austrailian guy named Deehigh, whom he's just phoned, who can give us a lift to Livingstone. "How am I supposed to find him?" I ask Wayne. He tells me to look for a red double decker bus, then takes off. I think he's joking, since there are no red double decker buses in Zambia, so I'm worried about how to find said white man.

Me, Joe, Christine, Steve and Megan pile into the little boat. The driver stops in the middle of the river and asks if I "have something for him". I hand him the money and say "all the way to the shore, please". Thankfully, he does as he's told. I get out of the boat. Steve skips ahead of me, and I look around for Deehigh with everyone in tow. I don't see him, and narrowly avoid a bag grabber by catching up to Steve. Creepy men eye me, so I flash my fake-wedding band (like I'd bring the real one) and stand behind my husband.

Half-clothed children are everywhere, pulling at their mothers' brightly colored skirts, chewing on small pieces of fruit. Someone is playing a crude, home-made guitar, someone else, a scratchy radio. Soldiers in cammos with AK-47s slung across their shoulders lean lazily against a fence post, looking annoyed and bored. Goats and chickens scuffle back and forth between the shore and the fence, between Botswana and Zambia. I look around, no Deehigh. In fact, there are no white faces at all. I walk over to the passport control office, really just a small window in an oddly placed brick building. Joe asks where I'm going, what I'm doing. Megan, as usual, wanders off, unafraid, chatting to anyone who will listen, cautiously answering questions. Christine wants to buy postcards. Steve tells her he "doesn't think there's a gift shop". She shrugs but I smile, recognizing his sarcasm, understanding he's about done with her for today.

I hear someone ask if we're "Wayne's friends". I turn around and am suddenly facing a red, double decker bus, and a red faced, white haired Australian. Named Deehigh. I almost burst out laughing. I nod, and tell him we haven't gone through passport control yet. I get a little frantic remembering that hurdle still hasn't been jumped - I want to get out of the crowded port and be at Vic Falls...where I've desperately wanted to be for years, saving money, energy, sacrificing time, resources to see. But Steve, relaxed, as usual, just asks Deehigh if that's his bus. "Yep," he replys, and then goes on to tell the story of how it was shipped from England to Zambia a few years ago, and who's crazy idea that was. I want to scream "CAN WE PLEASE GET THROUGH PASSPORT CONTROL NOW", but I don't want to attract too much attention to us. As if reading my mind, both Steve and Deehigh change the subject to passports and such, and we all get ours ready. Except for Christine.

She's on the ground, the contents of her bag spilled out. Most people hustling and bustling about the port don't notice, but a few opportunists circle her and her bag's contents like vultures. She's shuffling through things, patting her pants pockets, and putting her hands to her head every few seconds. My stomach sinks.

"Well," she says after a minute in her weird, half-Australian half-British accent, "I can't seem to find my passport." I can't help myself. I'm about to get hysterical. I raise my voice. "ANY of them? You can't find ANY OF THEM?" I yell. For god's sake, she has THREE. I have ONE, and so does everyone else. And we have them with us. I calm down and feel bad. Perhaps she's been swiped, mugged. Then it's not her fault, it could have happened to any of us. Besides, she's leaving us tomorrow, flying to Nairobi (Nairobbery, heh heh), so she's worse off than us. Still, I'm in ZAMBIA just miles from VICTORIA FALLS. I can see the spray from here. I want to be there, my whole body aches to be there, to feel the mist, to see the flowers, to watch the clear cold rapids, to hear the thunderous rush. I turn to Steve, pull him aside. "We're leaving her here," I say, then immediately feel bad. But he nods. "Or sending her back", he says. I feel excessively guilty, but have to remember that this is not my mate, not my buddy, not my relative. To each their own, and each is responsible for their own too. She said as much yesterday, didn't she? She certainly wouldn't want us to sit around waiting for her to sort this situation out, would she? She knows we want to get back into Botswana in time to go into the Delta and don't have THAT much time to spare, doesn't she? But could we really leave her in a place like this? She is traveling alone, how could we?

Deehigh reaches out to comfort a nearly crying and very embarrassed Christine. Megan and Joe have stalked off, clearly because they don't want to say something they'll regret. They're ready to leave her behind too. Deehigh gets an idea. "Give me your passports", he says, "and make yourself scarce." I don't know what he's doing, and am sure it's illegal, now our second violation of the law today, but he lives here, I don't, so I shut my mouth and do as I'm told, waiting with the others around the side of the building. There are five of us, but only four passports. Deehigh emerges a few minutes later, winks at me, and we follow him, hurriedly, to the bus. We cross through the fence, not rousing so much as a glance from the soldier guard, now yawning and carefully examining the bottom of his shoe. We're walking quickly, trying to look as inconspicuous as one can when climbing into a red, double decker bus amidst a sea of tiny old Toyotas (whilst wearing foreign clothing and having white, white skin) when we hear a cop say "Stop, you've done something wrong". We freeze, and Christine hunkers down behind me and Steve. We're sweating, Megan swallows loudly. Joe smiles, his default response to any kind of new stimulus, pleasant or unpleasant. "I told you last week you cannot park here," the cop says to Deehigh. We collectively breathe again. He gives us a look and we shuffle quickly onto the bus as he's talking to the cop, fighting off a parking ticket. Once we get inside, Christine scrunches down between the seats, hovering over the floor. We pull away, scott free. I tell Deehigh he's a god, and we're on our way to the falls.

eeeee!

So, oddly enough, I'm writing this from the top floor of a red double decker bus, flying down a paved-and-dirt road, roaring past mud and stick huts, cows and goats, women carrying water jugs on their heads, men in business suits walking along the dirt paths on the side of the road. About to be at the falls. About to see for myself, finally, what it's like. About to do something I thought it would take me years to do. About to have a life's ambition happen. No more writing, I've missed too much real time already.

xo,

Us and a gaggle o' South Africans, Australians, Irish, etc. (Joe, Alfred, Christine, Megan) on a boat in the Zambizi, where yours truly had too much to drink and said South Africans, Australians, Irish, etc. helped her out a lot and then proceeded to have too much to drink themselves. I rarely make excuses for myself (ha ha), but this time I will: I think we didn't realize we were drinking "homemade", from the bathtub style wine/spirits til it was too late. So there's our excuse. This didn't stop us from going later to "Step-Rite", Livingstone's "hottest" (that's what their flyer said) dance club. Toot toot!