On the road: Travel updates and news

Hi, I'm your friendly Coriolibot (as in "ro-bot").

It would seem Vince (shame on him) hasn't posted a fresh entry in a couple of days, so I am here to keep you entertained no matter what!

The post below is a random entry that we hope you haven't read before. Regular current entries follow. Enjoy, and come back soon for brand new posts!

Note: this random entry is served on a per-visit basis and will change if you reload the page. It will also not show up on regular RSS, Feedburner and Twitter feeds.

Dec 3
   Vintage! This is a random post. The year was 2006...

Of patterns

There was this very little dog that played with a basketball as big as he was in a large snowfield. He would push the ball around with his forehead at a tremendous speed, sliding and slipping on the snow but gathering great momentum nonetheless. Eventually, the ball would collect wet snow and its new irregular shape would prevent it from rolling straight, so the dog would stop and dutifully bite at the snow until the ball was clean again, at which point he’d resume pushing and chasing it around.

There was this window washer, unaware that his efforts rained down on the pedestrians below, endlessly ascending and descending along a building wall on his cable, tiptoeing on ledges, a fish on the outside of a human aquarium. There are so many windows to a tower.

And there was this rather determined tug boat engaged in an aquatic ballet around a huge freighter, seemingly kissing her from all sides in the middle of the Inlet. It reminded me of the surgeon fish delicately picking parasites off the shell of a grateful giant sea turtle in Deep Sea 3D.

And then there was this adorable redhead sitting at the empty terrace of a café, absentmindedly brushing a rebel lock of hair away from her face as she read an old book. She kept laughing silently at the story, completely absorbed by it, never noticing that the very laughter would unavoidably shake her wild hair loose and back in front of her eyes.

And there was, too, a lot more happening, in a regular, rhythmic, systematic, repetitive fashion. But I didn’t see all that, too busy looking back at all the times I should’ve broken the pattern and taken a different step.

The problem with repetition is its hypnotizing nature. Everything in the universe is vibration, from particles to our very actions. We unconsciously seek a rhythm, a wave pattern, and we settle in it. We ride it as it carries us.

But since I know all this so well, I’ve made a rule for myself to keep changing my patterns and to take improbable side-steps. So much so that it’s become a pattern of its own. Check mate.

 

2006-12-03 23:47 • Posted in Schtroumpfissime: 2 Comments » Toggle display • Reply
We now go back to current chronological entries:
Apr 29

A night on the Cape of Good Hope

It would seem the southern tip of Africa has two faces, one purely geographic and the other popularly romantic. Technically, the actual southernmost point is located some 200 km to the southeast of Cape Town and called Cape Agulhas. An extension of Africa’s gigantic landmass, that cape is wide and rather boring looking - on a map at least since I haven’t been there.

But if like me, you are a dreamer and cherish fractured memories of the adventures of Tintin et les cigares du Pharaon or those stories of the Flying Dutchman, you’ll ignore
the previous coldly geographical truth and let yourself believe that in fact, the more famous Cape of Good Hope is as far south as one can venture in Africa without dropping off into the ocean.

Hanging from the bottom of the Cape Peninsula, the Cape of Good Hope is much sexier than Cape Agulhas. Slender or even narrow, cliffy, dominated by a white lighthouse, inhabited by herds of antelopes and part of the Table Mountain National Park, the Cape is so close to Cape Town it can easily be visited in a half-day excursion. It isn’t truly the southern tip of the continent and if one could see that far, the landmass of Cape Agulhas would loom in the distance to the east and the south but since it’s out of sight, it’s also out of mind.

The biodiversity on the Cape Peninsula is extraordinary, so much so that the Cape Floral Kingdom - one of six kingdoms worldwide to define geographical flower arrangements, so to speak - is the smallest but richest of all six. One big flower bouquet at the foot of Africa.

Table Mountain National Park is a very popular tourist destination, as one could imagine, and even away from Table Mountain, the road going through the southern part towards Cape Point and the Cape of Good Hope is a rather busy artery winding through a large plateau covered with fynbos and inhabited by baboons, ostriches, bokkies and mountain zebras.

Much less visited and almost forgotten by even the locals, however, is the road that branches off to the west and leads to Olifantsbos. All the way at the end of that road, away from the crowds and buses, a small sandy beach is home to a few families of baboons. And even further, beyond a locked gate and around a corner that makes it invisible to the civilized world, hides a wonderful cottage rented out nightly as self catering unit by the park administration.

This is where Marie’s parents had very kindly decided to take us for our last outing in South Africa. The following night would be our last in Constantia and then we were flying back home to North America. The four of us drove there in a howling southeaster that left Henri very worried about his early morning bike ride. He was bringing his bicycle in the back of the Kombi hoping to get a training ride done in preparation for the March 100 km Argus bicycle race which, at 75, he still rides every year.

We picked up the cottage keys at the Park Headquarters on the main road and backtracked to the junction that marks the entrance to peace, quiet and magic. From there the nicely paved road stretches for kilometers in a straight, slightly descending line to a deep blue ocean. There are sometimes herds of ostriches and bokkies - bonteboks, elands, and hartebees - grazing on each side. The road then curves left and south, reaching the final parking lot next to a beautiful cove where we had a picnic last year. But we now had the key to a padlock guarding the gate to further privacy, a gate we left open for Marijke joining us later.

The cottage soon appeared, nested between a huge outcropping of limestone rising right behind it and the ocean, dark, foamy and insanely agitated by the gale force wind. We took possession of our new domain with pleasure and relief, careful not to let the doors slam. The interior was very nicely done and our room perfectly cozy. There was a smell, though, that instantly reminded Marie and me of our first trip to the area where a seal had been decomposing on the beach. It turned out to be a poor lizard that had managed to get squashed between the sliding window and its frame. The dead lizard removed, everything was peachy.

The wind was abating slowly and Marijke having finally arrived, we went for a walk up on the hill. Our map mentioned a WW2 submarine watch station which I wanted to investigate. On our way up, we found strangely shattered pieces of turtle shell on the path. Our only explanation was for birds of prey to have broken them by dropping them from up high. Who knows?

The fynbos here was as nice as everywhere else and the girls soon got distracted. I left them behind momentarily to visit the watch station on the edge of the cliff and when I came back just a few minutes later, they had disappeared. Trying hard to suppress childhood memories of a spooky movie I’d seen about kids vanishing on an excursion around Ayers Rock, I looked for them for quite a while. Then I decided to head back down, following footprints I’d recognized on the semi-sandy footpath. The darlings were already back at the cottage, having decided I was nowhere in sight and could take care of myself. Women! I made a mental note to brief Marie better for our Everest attempt next year. Or the following.

Waves were still crashing madly a few dozen meters away and the walk of a few braves along the beach turned into a challenge, sand flying horizontally and hitting one’s face with the loving softness of coarse sandpaper.

Dinner prep was launched. I’ve forgotten what else we ate because there were boerwoers and those alone require my full attention. The gale weakened during the night and when I woke up bright and early to go on a run, the sun was shinning merrily and turning the day into a complete opposite of what the previous had been. Henri had already left on his bike ride.

I put my running shoes on and decided to carry the G10 along, hoping for some game to be around that early. The heat took me by surprise. Not a whisper of wind and already, no later than 7:00 or 8:00 am, I was sweating profusely. I ran slowly and took pictures here and there. I had been right about the game, they were everywhere! I saw a huge herd of elands in the distance, losing my count over 40. Bokkies were crossing the road ahead of me, transiting to the beach. They never let me get very close, obviously much more wary of a runner than a car. I must have looked like a fearsome cheetah.

I could not have ran more than 4 km before I had to turn back with a side ache. I generally do well if I pick up a steady pace and don’t ever stop but taking pictures and getting excited every time I spotted an animal was quite exhausting. Still, what a wonderful, exhilarating run. 8km in the middle of nowhere, or rather the middle of the Cape of Good Hope, completely alone with the wildlife, with no other humans around for miles apart for the sleepy loved ones I’d left at the cottage - it was heaven. The air smelled of ocean spray and flowers were everywhere. Ostriches could have raced me and won, but my ego didn’t suffer. They are, after all, the fastest running birds on Earth.

Breakfast soon followed my return, then a walk on the transformed beach. Turquoise water, calm oily surface, white sand and the cry of seabirds. It was perfect. We all reflected on how extraordinary it had been to see both weather faces of the place, in such a short interval.

At last, we had to vacate the cottage. We drove all the way down the tourist lane to the actual Cape and its lighthouse and had lunch in a restaurant overlooking the bay, far above the water. The weather was pristine, so was the ocean. Lobster fishing boats crawled way down on the scintillating surface. The world appeared endless and immensely magical. We were standing on the Cape of Good Hope. There was, in the end and at the end, a lot of it. Hope, that is.

Defined tags for this entry: , , , ,

 

2009-04-29 20:54 • Posted in Always: & On the road: & South Africa: 2 Comments » Toggle display • Reply
Apr 20

Costa Rica's postal mess: it's still jungle law

We live in a world of precision and ours is a life of numbers and data. Things have to be by-the-book, there are methods and guidelines for just about everything and formatting, more than ever, rules. The postal system as we know it, is no exception. It’s common knowledge that if one wants a letter to arrive, one follows very a strict recipe, arguably tinted by national habits but nevertheless rather rigid and border-proof. Name first. Title. Company. Apartment. Civic number. Street name. City. Postal Code. Country. Planet. Etc.

And then there’s Costa Rica. Believe it or not, until a couple of years ago, Costa Rica hadn’t yet embraced the otherwise worldwide convention of assigning to houses a street number and an address. Not even in most of the Capital San Jose - and I saw this with my own eyes, or rather I failed to see it because there were neither street names nor numbers! The result? One did not live at 123 SomeStreet but rather at SomeStreet, 30 meters West and 65 meters South of SomeAvenue. That’s right, they labeled their addresses with a reference - in distance - to a landmark!

Now it would seem that a reform is under way; the national postal service, Correos de Costa Rica, has ambitiously begun assigning alphanumeric addresses to the Capital’s houses and Costa Rican address stylebuildings. As a result, one now lives at something like Av8-Ca15-#15. Yeah, I can hear a few fingers scratching as many heads. It’s definitely not the easiest way to convert a country to progress. What the above really means is that you live on 8th Ave, 15 meters from the closest lowest intersection which is 15th Street... Gulp. I think the Switzerland of Central America has a long way to go...

Any way, this new system hasn’t reached the outskirts yet and the letter I received today from el muy estimado Señor Andres González Suárez, a Costarricense student in tourism very courageously asking me for a job, was labeled creatively without a postal code, but it’s the return address that poured sunshine in my day. I’ll translate for those of you who don’t espeaka’ eSpanish - bare with me, Don Estorbo:

50 meters North and 100 meters East
of the Heredia Cemetery, Last
House left-hand side.
Costa Rica.

Now is that poetic or what?

By the way, I don’t have a job for Andres but if you own a business in Canada and are willing to legally hire a Tico on a temporary work permit, drop him a note. Your letter might even reach him. The cemetery isn’t going anywhere soon.


Defined tags for this entry: ,

 

2009-04-20 20:40 • Posted in ICMOL: & On the road: 5 Comments » Toggle display • Reply
Apr 19

New York, Easter

It was the Easter week-end. I had to get up at 3:30 am to get to Brooklyn around 7:30 pm. Such is the life of budget travelers.

When I arrived at YVR, Alaska Airlines’ computers were down. No ticketing, no check-in, no nothing. I waited in a line that grew to a few hundred people - it would seem many of them were going to Hawaii. Yet I finally made it through US Customs and my plane only took off a half-hour late. Weather was bleak on the West Coast but I got a nice view of the Tsawwassen BC Ferries terminal and the mountains of the Olympic Peninsula shone in the sun as we were landing at Seatac. I made my connection.

Over at Newark, I jumped on the AirTrain to the main station and connected with New Jersey Transit’s train to New York’s Penn station. I like the train, it’s a very civilized way of commuting to and from the airport. No traffic, no mad cab drivers, no breaking at the last minute nor lane swirling, no TV ads, no fortune to pay.

At Penn, I emerged topside and walked over two blocks east to the F subway line as the Empire State Building glowed in a beautiful sunset and thousands of people stormed the streets around Madison Square.

The F took me all the way to Brooklyn where I missed my stop and had to backtrack. The amazingly stupid thing with the New York subway is that you have to pay every time you exit and re-enter, even on a single trip in the same direction.

I walked briskly from Bergen to Henry street, passing by my little florist without stopping because I knew I’d be back and because at that stage, I couldn’t slow down even for a minute. Three flights of squeaky stairs, a deep breath, a cat miaow, an embrace and I was home.

Marie beamed, the terrace had been hastily reformatted, there were flowers on the table, champagne on ice and a couple of very cute chickens in the oven. The big black cat purred and rubbed against my legs, getting more than his share of poultry. Time did its usual trick and managed to simultaneously come to a grinding halt while suddenly jerking forward and speeding up tenfold.

We walked and walked, and when Marie was busy with work, I walked some more, down from the Lower East Side through Chinatown and by the foot of both bridges, and into Manhattan proper and around City Hall and then back up along Broadway. We revisited Central Park, walked around Brooklyn a bit, and also took a train north, leaving the Manhattan Island for the steep banks of the Hudson River.

There were ritualistic visits to Al di la and Sahadi’s, of course, Emiliano having sadly become rather invisible at the former but coffee being up to standards at the latter.

And, much too soon, I had to get up at 3:00 am again in order to get back to Vancouver, happy and sad, lonely but never alone, flying away for a moment and yet knowing that the distance will end, eventually. At last.

Defined tags for this entry: ,

 

2009-04-19 17:01 • Posted in Always: & On the road: & Photoblogs: 3 Comments » Toggle display • Reply
Apr 14

Planet New York

Indeed, she is a planet of her own. The Big Apple was our playground for Easter. We roamed around Central Park and the foot of the Manhattan and Brooklyn Bridges.

Defined tags for this entry: ,

 

2009-04-14 20:00 • Posted in On the road: & Photography: 2 Comments » Toggle display • Reply
Apr 5

Sweat and chains above Cape Town

There is no way to find a more urban hike than the path up Lion’s Head. Surrounded by the city and the sea, the little peak seems to have been squeezed upwards by a mighty hand, providing a surprisingly steep climb to Sunday adventurers and their flip-flops and dogs.

Last year we’d had our Picnic on the Lion’s Head on the gentle slopes below, this year we decided to go all out and scale the beast. We invited Marijke for the circumstance, unless it was she who invited us...

We parked along the main road under serious surveillance and looked up at the mountain. It’s hard to imagine from the base that an actual path whirls its way around the steep rocky walls in a spiral that leads to a final ledge and the summit beyond.

We had timed ourselves to reach the top before sunset and were obviously packing - not guns, but a feast and drinks. On the way up, we walked by the two paragliding launch pads, deserted even though we had seen a guy get off a cab with is glider. I shed a tear and moved on.

Eventually, the path up Lion’s Head gets so vertical that metal chains have been installed to steady speeding hearts and failing muscles. They are so heavily used every day that holding on to them is quite tricky; the chains themselves are slippery from a thick coating of sweat and the rocks around have been polished by years of human assault.

Marie glided almost effortlessly up and I forgot to take a picture. Fear of heights mon oeil. :-) When we got to the top, after a final climb on a narrow rocky spine, we were greeted by the warm beauty of the golden hour. We sat down on a ledge facing the ocean and spread our picnic. There was G&T for the soul, snoek pate on crackers for the heart and, if memory serves me well, cheese for the roots. Mine, any way. We ate with the enthusiasm of starved Hobbits.

More and more people were arriving at the top, in various combination of shape and attire. Next to us, some idiots’ little barking dog kept chasing a poor dassie (the local equivalent of a marmotte) and we all hoped fervently for it to fall off the face of the earth. After resting a bit longer, we started our descent while the sun’s last rays were slipping below the horizon. The light went down, colors were dimmed one by one and street lights came alive at our feet. The air was warm and smelled of many flowers and plants.

By the time we reached the car, it was dark. We hadn’t used the headlamps but could see small flickering lights way up on the mountain where people were still scrambling down the chains.

It was a nice hike. And we didn’t even get mugged.

Defined tags for this entry: , ,

 

2009-04-05 20:12 • Posted in On the road: & Photoblogs: & South Africa: 2 Comments » Toggle display • Reply
Mar 25

Roasted in the Namib, Part 9 - Epilogue

That day, again, it was a short drive inland to the Kersefontein farm, where we had booked a night. The farm came highly recommended and had been upgraded into a hospitality establishment by owner J., an member in good standing of the Cape Aristocracy who had been reported to be the star of the show.

We arrived early and, unannounced, were greeted in the courtyard by another guest, a friendly German who explained that our host had gone to town and would be back in a while. The staff weren’t sure which one our room was going to be, so famished, we settled for a picnic off the back of the Landcruiser, right in the middle of the place.

It was a pretty farm. The buildings were old and very Cape Dutch, arranged in a long alley framed by tall eucalyptus and surrounded by open fields. The main house, the size of a small castle, faced away from the alley and was theatrically enhanced by a neatly trimmed lawn and plane trees.

We unpacked our food box and opened the fridge briefly for some cheese and wine. Soon, we were joined by a couple of cats that obviously had long rehearsed their friendly act and began rubbing against our legs, tails entwined, eyes begging and cuteness set to maximum.

But another strange farm character arrived soon thereafter and claimed our attention. It was a sheep. Its wool was long, incredibly dirty and smelled awful but the animal was obviously tame and accustomed to human presence. It immediately showed interest in our food and when nothing was given, it began some rubbing of its own, except the purpose was scratching an itch and the instrument, our car.

By then the German guy had come back to chat and we jokingly commented on the sheep’s buffing of the dirty Landcruiser. Secretly, I was having a hard time not chasing it away with my foot up its buttocks.

Eventually, a car arrived and we figured our host had shown up. He indeed walk over to us after having a chat with some of his staff, glanced disapprovingly at our picnic setup and said: « And who do we have here? » I thought it was a strange sentence and labeled him as different, but cut him some slack. We introduced ourselves and I notice that Marie, who is usually outspoken and friendly, was staying strangely reserved and quiet. The guy did most of the talking. He showed us our room but spent too much time going on and on about his flying over the Namib Desert. He was a pilot. My slack probably cam from that knowledge.

He invited us to join every one at the bar at 7:00 pm and left, somehow managing to make it all look story-like, and he was the center of it. I half expected to show up at the bar and be surrounded by hunters speaking about their kills as would have been the case in, say, Congo 50 years ago. There was an subdued smell of snobbishness in the air. Or maybe it was elitism, or even racism. But it didn’t smell good. As guests, however, we seemed to stand on the right side of things. For now.

We took a walk to a small graveyard nearby and I had a chance to inspect the owner’s the Cessna that was parked by a dirt airstrip. The plane didn’t impress me. It was dirty and seemed poorly maintained. Then we dressed up for dinner, to some extend, and headed for the bar. It occupied one of the many individual buildings of the farm, probably an old barn or stables of some kind. The walls were covered with aviation memorabilia, most of it old and military. We were among the first to arrive and being asked what we would drink, we decided for Greygoose Martinis.

J. didn’t really know how to mix them and seemed to improvise with much help from the assistance. They turned out poorly. Marie, intrigued by the decor, asked him what the link was between him and military flying. « I was a lawyer in the Air Force, » he answered bluntly, his tone putting an abrupt end to the subject, on the edge of rudeness.

More guests arrived and were introduced to each other. My initial feeling of being suddenly thrown into a movie increased tenfold. The manners, the accents, the tones, the attitudes were all there. Too much pride. A touch of disdain. Carefully crafted attitudes. Polite but absentminded ears. Predominance of the word « I ». And very, very well hidden racial subtleties.

The sheep was given beer from the bottle by a young indefinite of J.’s entourage. A mysterious triangle had emerged between 3 males and left a pregnant woman aside. I was hoping my frowning was only inner-based.

We moved on to the main house for dinner. A long table had been set in a richly decorated room and everyone was attributed a seat upon arrival in an order that had obviously been pre-arranged and confirmed bizarre rules while strengthening the triangle. There was a silent order casting its shroud at that table, the ruling of a class we no longer belonged to.

The conversation, like that of any dinner, began its roller-coaster around the table, never failing to return to the one end where sat our host like a king on his throne. He spoke a lot, always of himself or of things he knew best, and pushed the art of interruption to a masterful level. I could feel Marie’s blood pressure rise as she fought to avoid voicing out her opinions too icily when the topic became edgy, and it often did. I also noticed with great annoyance that his colored kitchen staff were serving us without really ever looking at us, but constantly glancing towards their master. The expression on their face wasn’t very hard to place: they seemed afraid.

J.’s table might have been long, old and fancy, its food was nothing to write home about. In fact to this day, I have no recollection whatsoever of what we ate. Later, we were led to the adjacent living room and offered coffee. I must admit that the furniture was superb. There was enough in this house to create an impressive museum. J. obviously took major pride in this and he spoke at great length of the origin of this and that, but my attention span had began to fade seriously, and more worryingly, my stomach was rapidly getting quite upset.

Bats were flying over our heads and people were instinctively hunching down on their sofas and chairs, which seemed to amuse our host a great deal. My head began to spin and cold sweat washed over me like an arctic tide. The thought of throwing up in publi c became too much and while Marie was withstanding the affected verbal assaults of a ridiculous little man, I suddenly stood up and left the room unsteadily, involuntarily banging the door behind me in my rush. I had planned to stop at the nearby washroom but found my way out of long hallways decorated with old paintings and headed to our room where I collapsed.

I’ll spare you the details. It was a painful night, and the morning only saw me feeling worse. The thought of having to get on the road and drive back to Cape Town was a horrible ordeal and I doubted even having the strength to get up. My stomach was terribly upset, I was dizzy and probably had quite a fever judging by the waves of cold and warm that got me to pull up the blanket and then throw it away repeatedly.

Marie was so worried that she got me an appointment with a doctor in cape Town. We were only an hour or two away. I wondered through my nausea if I had eaten something bad or this was just a bug, or maybe some tropical disease finally catching me off guard.

But against all odds, by 10:00 am or so, I was feeling a little better and we got under way. There would be no driving for me, but we still decided to stop briefly in Langebaan to see the stunning turquoise waters. We made Constantia in early afternoon and I spent my last energy helping Marie unload the Landcruiser, while the corgis danced around us in pure ecstasy. When we were done and boxes and bags had been piled up inside the house, I excused myself and collapsed again on my bed, empty.

This was not the triumphant return I had envisioned. There would, of course, be lots of time for stories and slideshows. There would be many lively dinners, wine flowing along with the tales of our journey and more tales echoing from others, memories flying across the table like tennis balls on a court. There would be many long and patient hours spent at our computers blogging and processing thousands of photos. And there would, eventually, come a time for nostalgia and more dreams, and the cycle would start all over again. This had been an extraordinary trip.
But for now, I just needed to sleep.

Defined tags for this entry: , ,

 

2009-03-25 04:38 • Posted in On the road: & Photoblogs: & South Africa: 5 Comments » Toggle display • Reply
Mar 16

Roasted in the Namib, Part 8 - Perimeter watch

We further explored the Cape Columbine Nature Reserve just in case, found many other great camping spots, mostly deserted, but the first one prevailed. The air was thick with moisture, the ocean calm and the temperature comfortable. We pitched right on the beach, 5 meters away from a small bay. Light wind carried many ocean smells and the strange faint sound of a horde of barking dogs. We listened curiously for a while and had to go investigate; it turned out there was a huge sea lion colony upwind along the shoreline.

Having set up camp in the fog, we went back to Paternoster and had lunch at a restaurant overlooking a long sandy beach onto which dozens of colorful fishing boats had been pulled. This was also a fishing town but while Lamberts Bay had been overwhelmed by the presence of a large commercial fishing and canning company, this was more subdued and pretty. Locals were selling lobsters at street corners and we had been advised to carefully inspect their catch before buying; the poor animals imperatively had to still be alive to be considered fresh and edible.

We decided to shop at the source and went straight down to the beach, where Marie managed to score the two largest lobsters of the day off a boat just returning from sea. They cost 60 rands each or a rough total of $US 12.00, were enormous and quite alive. We took them back and started planning our supper.

Marie inherited the gruesome job of preparing the poor crustaceans and I looked around at the fog lifting slowly, delighted by how isolated we were. A small building at the park entrance could be seen in the distance, and a very bad ablutions block next to it. Apart from that, civilization was invisible. A small pick-up truck drove by slowly on the upper path in one direction, and then the other, its driver looking around either curiously or purposefully. We didn’t talk about it but it would later turn out we had both wondered what he was looking at, or for, and worried a little.

The lobsters, grilled to perfection and served with a minimalist butter and garlic sauce, were delicious. A few rain drops began to fall and forced me to improvise a tarp canopy, but we then sat and ate and stared silently at the water, happy. This was nature at its best. No one around, peace and quiet, wonderful food, wine, and the best company. We lit our candles and relaxed. Later, long after darkness had fallen, we cleaned around a bit and went to bed.

But we never fell asleep. Marie, after having bravely slept through our nights in the desert and endured the close proximity of wild animals, had finally met her Waterloo. While nature had never managed to scare her beyond reasonable limits, it was our return to civilization and the re-emerging knowledge of her country’s troubled past and crime-plagued present that overwhelmed her.

Her senses became acutely aware of every sound and movement in a kilometer radius and the relative protection of our tent’s enclosure acted as an amplifier for each potentially threatening micro-event. The sound of a nearby car driving to a campsite down the road was suddenly loaded with danger and even the irregular sea lion barking morphed into occasional human voices that seemingly converged on our location. I tried to help and get her to relax, experimenting with rolling the window screens up, then down, then half-way up, and half-way down, changing sides, explaining a noise, rationalizing a shadow. But time passed and things only deteriorated. I realized that no sleep would be achieved this way. My poor Marie was terrified. And to my complete surprise, slowly, her arguments began getting to me too.

We were quite isolated in a remote area, with no help to be found anywhere close, stuck inside a tent in pitch black darkness with no view outside. Well, I’d done that before. The park’s gate was wide open to allow returning campers through during the night. Yup, that was a concern. We could not have seen anybody come at us until it was too late. Uh-uh, annoying too. And this was South Africa. Yeah, so? There were nearby settlements but a high social fence separated us from them. Our level of wealth compared to that of locals was mind boggling. Despite the fact that we were camping, we had more with us on this trip then most of them would own in a lifetime. We must have been temptation incarnate. That was bad. And then Marie had all those hair-raising stories, real ones, and she kept current with the news, and she had grown up in troubled times. Her experience was not one I could easily dismiss. Damn.

And of course there was the recent reality of our nights in Constantia, where private armored guards patrolled the streets, where every door was shut carefully and locked and then secured with iron bars, where outside flood lights were turned on in the middle of the night when dogs started barking, where I had fumbled once for a light switch on the wall and hit a panic button by mistake - almost starting a siren that would have waken up the entire neighborhood, where garden fences lined with barbed wire had been cut and intrusion only avoided because of the dogs’ watchful presence. There were also in-family stories of break-ins and hijacks. They painted a gloomy picture. Little by little, doubt crept in. What if?

I tried to reason with myself, to put things in perspective, to bring her worries on par with the odds, and logic. But the night is a time for fear and chickens. Mankind has long fought darkness in its quest for safety and I could now see that despite all our modern arrogance, we weren’t that different from our ancestors piled up in fear at the bottom of a cave, waiting for the night to pass and hoping for a chance to live yet another day.

Finally, around 11:30 pm, I made a decision and turned over to sleepless Marie. « All right, » I said, « here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to take a watch until the morning and you, my dear, will get some sleep after all. » She fought the idea politely but I think she was relieved and I made her promise to actually get some sleep.

So I got dressed and took both headlamps with me outside, along with a small pepper spray we’d bought before the trip not knowing what to expect in terms of madmen or mad cows. I also had my two pocket knives, of which the Swiss Army knife was the fiercest weapon, able to inflict cork-screw eye wounds and tooth pick punctures of an incredible magnitude. I zipped the tent up carefully behind me as the night was getting chilly and peering through the obscurity, took a deep breath and wondered how Rambo would have negotiated this.

Our campsite was protected on two sides by the frigid ocean. Nothing more than a mad sea lion could have come at us from that direction. To the north stretched the narrow access road, deeply sandy and curving sharply right into a blind corner. It only led to our site where it ended in a circular cul-de-sac. Beyond it were only boulders and the water but a walking path continued to the next campsite, out of sight behind a low outcropping, a strange and creepy group of corrugated iron shacks covered with fishing nets and used as dormitories.

I figured these two directions were our position’s weak flanks and decided to set up my perimeter accordingly. Marie had earlier blocked the access road with a row of improvised landmines (stones), preventing vehicles from direct access unless the stones were removed. I spun the Landcruiser around that way, providing easy illumination of the road if needed and readying it for an escape. I then placed a LED headlamp on the hood and shone it towards the path. At the rear of the car, I placed our single gas lantern on the ground behind a tire opposite the tent, so that it wouldn’t blind me but still lit up the footpath and surrounding bushes. Then I positioned myself next to the tent, between the car and the lights, with a convenient view in all four directions, the tent only blocking a section of shoreline. I decided not to sit down to avoid falling asleep and began my watch by making a thermos of coffee on the gas burner.

The weather was very unsettled. The wind had picked up and was blowing hard to sea, bringing in low patches of thick rainy clouds and then tearing them up in no time. Stars began to shine at intervals, bright and crisp and cold, and soon hidden again in light rain. I tried to keep quiet, not to worry Marie or wake her up, and had to constantly refrain from looking at my watch. Time flowed by very lazily.

I considered hiding my face with war paint but decided against it. I’d gotten the axe out of the car and kept it handy, but my plan’s strength resided in dissuasion rather than force. I intended to keep some light up all night and make it clear that someone was awake and watchful. If the man in the pick-up had indeed been scouting possible targets, he’d have to account for not so passive resistance. But I did wish I had an AK-47 or a light saber.

The first false alarm was caused by a gust of wind that knocked dishes down and threw me into serious tachycardia and hyperventilation. I used the sudden flow of adrenaline to valiantly pick-up the dishes and re-arranged them neatly on our camping table.

Around 2:30 am, the gas lantern began to weaken faster and soon died. My southern flank was left exposed. I grabbed the second headlamp I had been saving for recon’ missions outside the perimeter, aimed it at the footpath and went back to my station. I still hadn’t sat down once. I’d been occupying myself with the stars when they shone and the prospect of a good breakfast when they flinched.

About an hour later, the first headlamp failed. These LED lights are good for many hours but we had been using them the entire trip. I switched the second lamp to the front of the car and used a candle to create some light towards the footpath. As long as I avoided looking at any strong light source, my eyes had greatly adjusted to the dark and I could see pretty well around me. I placed a second candle in a wind protector behind the tent to prevent any attempts at a beach landing. With a bit of luck, dawn wouldn’t be long now, and the need for light would drop along with the threat level.

The second false alarm was the result of too many readings of The Lord of the Rings. I caught in my peripheral vision a silhouette sneaking by just beyond the perimeter. I immediately drew Dart and noticing its blade glowed with a bluish flame, I deducted it must have been an Orc. Whatever it was, it never came back.

By 4:30 am, I began to shiver a little. I had been standing at attention for almost 5 hours. My standards lowered by a stronger need, I reached for the blanket protecting the rear seat of the Landcruiser. It smelled strongly of dogs and was covered in their hair, but it brought me a sense of warmth and comfort. I wrapped it around me tightly and finally sat down on a camping chair, alertness blunted by fatigue and senses numbed by the cold. « How can I be cold in Africa? » I wondered distractedly.

At last, around 5:00 or 6:00 am, the night gave up its fight and let light prevail over darkness. My watch was over. Danger had not come close. We had made it through one more adventure - one that, I decided, I would never tell anyone about. (I guess I changed my mind. I enjoy making a fool of myself retrospectively.)

I woke Marie up and reported that we were safe from human monsters and Co. Then I admitted I was a little tired and would take a short nap. She got up and bravely assumed the watch despite the terrifying daylight now surrounding her. I was out for 3 hours. When I woke up, still cold and groggy, fresh coffee was waiting for me and breakfast was served. We looked at each other and burst in laughter, embarrassed and relieved. This one would go down in the annals.

There is no such thing as fearless people, only fearless moments. ;-)

Defined tags for this entry: , ,

 

2009-03-16 17:30 • Posted in On the road: & Photoblogs: & South Africa: 7 Comments » Toggle display • Reply
Mar 14

Roasted in the Namib, Part 7 – Back to so-called civilization

Leaving behind us such amazing places as the Namib and the Kgalagadi turned our drive south into a bit of an anticlimax. We aimed for the town of Upington through which our old friend the Orange River flowed on its way towards the ocean. There too, the water’s presence drew a singular line of luxurious green vegetation across deserted and dried-up plains.

We followed the river westward and eventually reached good old N7, the same road that had led us up to our first border crossing. Heading south this time, we continued to our next stop Kamieskroon, in the heart of flower country. Of course summer isn’t a time for bloom and I had to content myself with Marie’s colorful descriptions, trying hard to picture the current harshly brown and morose land in her dress of sparkling colors.

The small town of Kamieskroon was asleep and wouldn’t wake up until the spring. It lives an ephemeral glamorous life in September each year when people pour in from the four corners of the world to come and witness an extraordinary abundance of flowers that transform arid landscapes into Van Gogh masterpieces. The rest of the year is a long, dull and hot hibernation.

We checked in at the only hotel where a single car stood parked and got the receptionist to make a reservation for our dinner at some restaurant, as seems to be custom in small South African hotels. The other guests turned out to be from Quebec - what they were doing so far away from home, lost in Kamieskroon off season, was a puzzle.

In the evening, we got in the Landcruiser and carefully followed directions to the restaurant. We got there fast. Marie and I frowned and looked at each other. The hotel was less than 300 meters away. We could have walked over. This was a strange world.

There was nothing on the outside of the old stone barn identifying it as a restaurant, nor were there any cars in front or even signs of life. We drove around to the large courtyard in the back and found one small car. Things were improving. Then a lady leaned out through a half stable-style door and waved. « Hi, » she said, « I was waiting for you. »

She was the owner. She was the waitress. She was the cook. She had opened the place up for us. Marie and I would be her only customers for the evening. We sat at a small table in a beautiful rustic room and spoke in a low voice while our hostess was busily cooking in the kitchen next door. There was no menu, we’d go with the flow. Her cooking skills happened to be less impressive than the old house but we were hungry and ate gratefully.

Maps out on the table, we discussed the next leg of our journey. We were to drive down, pushing on further south towards Cape Town but eventually taking a sharp turn to the west and the coast. Our research had revealed a campsite in the fishing town of Lamberts Bay and we were aiming for it.

The following morning saw us back on N7, in familiar territory. The N7 isn’t particularly pleasant to drive on because it is a major artery with only a single lane in each direction. People drive fast and not always very well. The speed limit is that of a highway, 120 km/h.

A very strange habit of South African drivers makes then pull over to the side of the road at their current driving speed to let faster vehicles pass them. It’s a surprisingly polite yet incredibly stupid practice that puts a great deal of pressure on everyone while still possibly allowing for traffic to flow smoother. The slower cars being passed end up dangerously close to the ditch, on uneven surfaces, putting their tires and pedestrians at great risk. Passing cars must still dodge to the right and cut into the opposite lane a bit, which results in vehicles often crossing each other at very close range and relative speeds of up to 250 km/h.

I was happy to leave N7 behind and head towards the ocean. The campground at Lamberts Bay, however, was a bit of a shock. Coming from the remote northern areas and arriving on the coast was like suddenly being thrown back into the real ugly world with no transition. Nested right against the beach, the compound was surrounded by a high electric fence and serious barbed wire, giving the place the look of a concentration camp. The fence was very old and in poor condition but its purpose worried us.

I went back to the office and asked bluntly if crime was that much of an issue. « Not really, » the woman answered, « but we did have a problem in December, some stuff was stolen. » I was puzzled by her answer. I had wanted to be reassured and couldn’t understand how she could have admitted to that - it went against every ounce of business instinct I had. I looked around me. Individual sites were dirty, smelly and very few had a water tap. The ablutions block was the creepiest I’d seen. We reluctantly began to pitch the tent in a strong sea breeze that threatened to relocate it unexpectedly.

Marie wasn’t feeling very good. Suddenly, camping was not looking so appealing. « The hell with this, » I said eventually. I jumped in the car leaving Marie behind to recover and drove to a B&B we’d noticed nearby. They had a room, more expensive than camping, but clean. Big. Pretty. Comfortable. Private. And safe. I went back to the campground, picked Marie up telling her to drop everything she was doing and took her back to the B&B with specific instructions to read, rest and relax. I then returned once more to the campground, threw the tent down, packed up, and bailed us out gracefully.

The reason for coming to this strange town had been simple: we’d made a reservation for dinner at a one-of-a-kind open air seafood restaurant called Muisbosskerm. In the evening, Marie was feeling stronger and we drove there taking along a bottle of chilled Prosecco - the little fridge still doing wonders for our moral comfort. Muisbosskerm was isolated on its own, far out of town on a dirt road along the coast. There were no concrete walls nor ceilings. The place was partitioned with what looked like thatch walls. A single narrow door led inside the enclosure where some seating space was arranged around large open air grills, fires and tables. Steps led down to a cement veranda right over the beach.

The concept was simple. Food was cooked in front of us on the many braais and grills, in successive waves of varying dishes. It was then placed on the tables in a buffet fashion for people to come and help themselves repeatedly. There was a huge variety of local fish, seafood, some bizarre meat dishes, an amazing freshly baked bread and it all looked delicious, if quite unconventional. We sat on the veranda despite the wind and watched the sun set while we ate and drank Prosecco, our sweaters zipped up high and cheeks chilling. Dinner was supposed to last 3 hours but after a little over one, we were feeling full and content. We had coffee behind the protective walls, away from the wind, and drove to bed.

The night was good but we couldn’t get out of Lamberts Bay fast enough in the morning. It would remain a nasty stain on our trip memories. Our next stop was the Cape Columbine Nature Reserve, further south on the coast. The reserve was supposed to have many small campsites and we hoped to make up for the previous night’s failure. It was a brief drive away, on a road strangely sprinkled with tortoises which we had to avoid like as many landmines.

When we reached the reserve, a kilometer or so outside of Paternoster, a thick fog bank had rolled in from the sea and limited visibility to a few hundred meters. We passed a gate and explained we would « just have a look at campsites », not taking any chances this time. But soon, we knew we were going to stay. The first campsite we drove to on a narrow sand path, was isolated, private and right on a pebble beach framed by high granite boulders. It was lovely.

It was barely noon, this had been our shortest driving day of the trip. Unknown to us though, it was also going to be the longest night...

Defined tags for this entry: , ,

 

2009-03-14 17:50 • Posted in On the road: & Photoblogs: & South Africa: 2 Comments » Toggle display • Reply
Mar 10

Roasted in the Namib, Part 6 – Beasts of the Kgalagadi

That night seemed to drag on forever. We didn’t sleep much. The heat was brutal, still above 40ºC, and I had to keep my bed wet by splashing myself with lukewarm drinking water from a bottle, in a futile search for some coolness. The air mattress felt spongy and wobbly. We tossed and turned and heard noises, and were up very early. After packing up unsteadily, we took welcomed showers. Others were doing the same. In the Kgalagadi, nobody sleeps in. Dawn and dusk are the fleeting but priceless gems of any given day.

We faced an easy drive to Nossob, some 80 km to the north, far inside the park. It is a major intersection between two sand « roads » and the hub was said to have a store, gas station and available accommodation. We decided to get a proper room there instead of a campsite, in hopes of a better night.

Our Park permit and log was retrieved from the main gate where a ranger duly recorded our new destination; failure on our part to later surrender said log in Nossob would trigger a search. The Park Administration didn’t want us eaten. It’s bad publicity.

We topped up our diesel tank and headed out the secondary gate that acts as a damper between the actual reserve and the inhabited compound. Still sleepy, I was fiddling with my camera in the left seat while Marie was driving us slowly on the shallow sand path, her eyes trained on the bushes, ready for anything.

Suddenly, less than 300 meters from the gate, she hissed: « Look! »

I jerked my head up but at first could not see what she was pointing at. « Jislaaik! » she said again, her voice unbelieving, « it’s a freakin’… leopard! » And I finally saw it. The stunningly beautiful animal was right by the side of the road, oblivious to us, stalking a herd of wildebeest and their two calves.

Marie maneuvered us to a stop and I quickly aimed my camera, took a few shots, and sat back down. « Cool, » I said, satisfied. She looked at me with incredulous eyes. « Cool? That’s it? Do you realize how lucky we are? This is exceptional! » « Yeah, » I agreed, « it’s amazing! » I was happy and ready to move on to our next sighting. For all I knew - being a game reserve neophyte - the entire day was going to be a long series of stops to photograph animals like we would in a zoo.

Marie patiently explained that the odds of spotting a leopard so soon and so close to the gate were very slim - next to none, as it would turn out from many later conversations with ex-park visitors. These were wild animals and they were spread out throughout the entire area of the park. « And this is, » she added, « a perfect sighting: no other cars around, the animal is 30 meters away, on the move and hunting. » I decided that a perfect sighting deserved more pictures and figured that I could get a much clearer shot by opening the electric roof and standing up on my seat, which I did.

The leopard continued to ignore us but we must have blown its cover. Our presence seemed to bother the wildebeest and they moved away from the road and their stalker. The feline appeared to take this blow casually and lay down for a while, panting softly as if tasting the air. Then it got up again and started after its prey, away from us.

We got back on the road, very excited. « Poor gnous, » I said to Marie, « their young would make such a delicious breakfast for the leopard. » « Poor what? » she asked surprised. « Gnous. It’s the French word for wildebeest. » She suddenly laughed. « Now I understand, » she said, and she sang something to herself that sounded like « I’m a guh-nooo… » I looked at her concerned. The heat of the previous night might have taken a deeper toll than I’d realized. « It’s from the Muppets, » she explained with a wide smile. « Ah, » I answered. I am not Muppet-literate. No one is perfect. But the phrase was catchy and it would stick with us for the rest of the trip.

Some 10 minutes later, having already spotted many kinds of antelopes, squirrels and other peaceful animals, we came upon a group of SUV’s piled up against each other at bizarre angles, effectively blocking the way. Drivers and passengers were pointing all kinds of cameras towards the left. Some had huge telephoto lenses that instantly made me jealous.

It took us a moment to figure out what they were staring at. Then we made out the shape of another leopard, lying in the shade of a tree. It was hard to see because of all the cars, 5 or 6 of them, each one trying to get a better view, a cleaner shot. It appeared there was no code of ethics among game watchers. The jungle law applied to people too. First come, first served, and if you could cut off the guy in front of you, you would.

It was disappointing and we moved on, joking about how much nicer our own private sighting had been. A little bit further, once again, a couple of cars roughly parked on the side of the path slowed us down, and as it was going to be the case every time we passed a stopped vehicle, we followed the gaze of the occupants. Then Marie and I looked at each other, incredulous. There, sitting alone in the middle of a wide open space in the dried river bed, was a leopard cub.

It had a patient and resigned attitude but was far from asleep and rather watchful, and something about its gaze smelled of underlying resolve and pride, as if it had known that its lineage was great and a day would come when it would rule over this land. We wondered if the first leopard we’d seen might have been the mother, gone hunting and having left the cub behind near a waterhole.

Everywhere in Africa, life revolves around the variable presence of waterholes. In the Kgalagadi, these are mostly located along the desiccated beds of the two rivers and because of the incredible dryness, some of the holes have been supplemented with artificial wind-driven wells that manage to pump a miserable amount of water up from the water table below, attracting animal life in a bi-daily cycle.

At first, childishly enthusiastic, we kept a list of each species we spotted and their numbers. Eventually, though, after counting dozens or even hundreds of springbok, wildebeest, hartebeest, gemsbok (oryx) and other common animals, we stopped. There were many kinds of birds of prey and also the incredibly sized kori bustards. There were cute mongooses. There were ground squirrels, blue-headed lizards and black-backed jackals.

Less than an hour before arriving in Nossob, we finally spotted a lion near a waterhole, already walking away towards the shade of some distant trees. A couple parked there told us that there had been three of them, young males, lying right next to the road. We decided to come back in the evening.

Nossob, too, was protected by a gated high fence. It was a medium size enclosure in which 7 or 8 bungalows cohabited with the office/info center/store/gas station. While waiting for our key, I glanced at a large sign by the registration desk labeled « Wall of shame. » On it were posted pictures of unknowing visitors that had broken the sacred Park Rules and were hence used to illustrate the do’s and don’t’s of proper game watching.

I thought the photos of cars parked across the road or into the bushes were funny, and so were the ones showing people venturing out of their cars. Then I came upon one of a dude sticking out of his car roof to take a picture of nearby lions. The legend said: « A lion can run towards you at 6 m/s. How fast do you really think you can roll that window up or slide down inside your car and close the roof? » I showed it to Marie, embarrassed, and re-read the back of our permit. It was clearly mentioned that no body parts were allowed outside of cars. Le visiteur jura, mais un peu tard, qu’on ne l’y prendrait plus.

We settled in our own bungalow with delight and prepared for a night of grand comfort. It was still early and we agreed that after offloading and resting for a while, we’d drive back out to the last waterhole and wait for the lions to show up - with no body parts sticking out.

The gates of Nossob close early. By 7:30 pm, everyone must be inside, or else. A sign by the gate warns visitors of a jackal problem within the compound and reminds them not to leave anything outside, food, shoes, toes and the like. But it’s a small inconvenience in comparison to the popular stories of people killed by felines in other unprotected areas, stories that people tell and re-tell with the chronic fascination of horror movie watchers.

By 6:00 pm, we were arriving at the waterhole. We first scanned the distant tree line but found the lions almost at our feet - all three of them lying low in the grass, resting, waiting for the heat to dissipate. The waterhole was deserted, probably because of their presence. Well, not quite completely deserted; a solitary jackal was circling on the opposite side, unable to bring itself to close in beyond a safe distance but wanting a turn to go drink.

Eventually, we had to head back in order not to miss the closing of the gate. An enormous storm cloud was hovering on the horizon and, like any respectable cumulonimbus, was dropping considerable amounts of water on the scenery below. We watched, fascinated, as the giant dark cloud moved in our direction. We were in for a treat. Rain in the Kgalagadi is precious and rare.

Back at the compound, we started the braai as darkness fell fast, and by the time we put the boerewors on the fire, large raindrops were splashing on our faces. We retreated underneath the relative protection of a narrow corrugated iron canopy and watched lightning illuminate the night. It rained for over an hour. At 11:00 pm, electricity was shut down throughout the compound like every night and we continued on with candles and headlamps.

In the morning, there were puddles at the bottom of each depression in the road. We headed west across the park, traversing from one riverbed to the other over desolate dunes and into a very different landscape. Gemsbock were drinking in the puddles right on the road. We spotted a few snakes, including a dreadful Cape cobra, bright yellow and a meter long. The advertised giraffes, however, never materialized. But we found a solitary brown hyena and later a couple of lions resting under a tree near the open carcass of a wildebeest they had killed and dragged almost 100 meters across the road.

When we reached Twee Rivieren, closing our loop around the southern part of the park, we again opted for a bungalow. This being the main compound, we would now have air conditioning in our room, a luxury so great I could barely imagine it. We moved in, unpacked and took a nap. Later we went back out for a drive into the closest portion of the road to Nossob, hoping to see a leopard again. We did better than that. We saw the mother leopard involved in a mysterious hunt along with 4 cheetahs, a Cape fox and a steenbok. Mother nature was orchestrating her dramas with a flair that, while perfectly clear for the animals, kept us guessing and puzzled.

When we got back to the 2-room bungalow, I went into the bedroom that we had left closed because it contained the AC unit, shut the door behind me and turned on the light. A small shape flew by my head in a whoosh. I looked up, surprised. Two bats were flying in circles above me. This was a high ceiling and they quickly disappeared underneath one of the wooden beams. I frowned and looked at the bed. There were droppings everywhere, and bat droppings are known to be a rather serious health hazard. « Zut, » I said to myself, « I guess we won’t have AC tonight after all. »

I went back and broke the news to Marie. There were two additional beds in the kitchen section of the bungalow and despite the relative distance from the AC unit, they were clean and would have to do. « This is Africa, after all, » I philosophized hypocritically to Marie, being the visitor myself and her the local. For that reason, I opted not to show or even mention the giant spider-like creature I found in the shower - body almost the size of my fist and legs everywhere. It was slow and lazy and resisted only mildly my forceful eviction through the window, but revealed, it might have been the drop that made the vase overflow.

In the morning, we got up at dawn and even before packing, went for an early last drive. We were blessed with another lion and a marvelous sighting of the same leopard cub walking straight to us to come and drink at a waterhole and then eventually walking back next to the Landcruiser and climbing into a tree.

It was the apotheosis. We left the park happy and drove south onto a new route. We were headed back to civilization. Or so we thought...

Defined tags for this entry: , ,

 

2009-03-10 20:53 • Posted in On the road: & Photoblogs: & South Africa: 7 Comments » Toggle display • Reply
Mar 1

Roasted in the Namib, Part 4 – Sossusvlei, or taking the pulse of the oldest desert on Earth

Sossusvlei lies in the middle of the Namib Desert, 60 km west of its port of entry Sesriem and another 70 km from the coast. This is a place where heat prevails, where sand is king and ruler of a magical, changing world. The Namib is said to be the oldest desert in the world, dating back over 55 million years. It’s for that reason that the record-high dunes have turned burnt orange as iron in the sand oxidized over time.

Vlei is an Afrikaans word for pan, and indeed, every few years, the rains flood Sossusvlei’s clay bed through the Tsauchab River in a surprising display of natural anarchy. Between these exceptional events, the only water found on the vlei or the dunes is that carried by visitors. It is a land of thirst and incredible dryness. But the sheer beauty of the dunes and their constantly changing colors, as they react to different light and weather patterns, turns such harshness into a mesmerizing kaleidoscope.

Access to the vlei isn’t that easy. The closest place to camp is located in Sesriem. Being a National Park, the 50,000 km2 Namib-Naukluft is fenced off and protected by gated access. The Sesriem gate opens at 5:00 am and closes at 8:30 pm. There is no overnight camping allowed, so in order to be on location for sunrise, one must imperatively be at the gate by 5:00 am sharp and drive hastily to the end of the road.

Surprisingly, that road is paved. Because nobody seems to take the posted speed limit of 60 km/h too seriously, driving it takes less than an hour. However, the pavement ends before the vlei. There remain a few kilometers of very deep sand track to be negotiated by 4-wheel drive vehicles only.

I had set the alarm on my watch for 4:15 am to have time to prepare coffee in the dark and wake Marie up gently, and still make the gate at 5:00. When I woke up at 4:45, I bolted upright and had to admit I’d missed my wake up call. Coffee would have to wait. I shook Marie up, she bravely fought sleep away from her eyes and we fumbled to get ready. We hit the gate around 5:15 am, showed our access permit and were let through in complete darkness.

A couple of headlights sets were dashing through the night far ahead and eventually another set appeared far behind us, but for all practical purposes, were were alone. Despite the perfectly tarred pavement, I had to be vigilant for animals - proof once again that even the meanest desert shelters some form of life. Two rabbits, a jackal and a few bokkies ran away from our lights. I stuck to 80 km/h not to push my luck and when eventually the sky began to pale behind us, we had covered good ground.

Our first stop was at famous Dune 45, long before sunrise. Located about two thirds of the way to Sossusvlei, the dune comes just about flush with the road and offers an incredibly easy and inviting path into the desert. Its sharp spine rises steeply to the south, away from the valley, and starting to climb along the edge, one is immediately humbled by the vastness of its scale and its face’s angle. The problem with sand dunes is that you have to choose between going barefoot, which to me is a little silly and makes me wonder about buried scorpions, and keeping your shoes on and watching them swell up as they fill with sand. In no time, it felt like my shoes were 4 sizes too small.

The light was improving, still very soft and pinkish, slowly revealing the world around us and unveiling its crushing beauty. A few early risers had preceded us up the dune and a few more arrived later. Dune 45 had just been written up in Go! Magazine as the best first morning stop and indeed, it was a magical sight.

But Marie and I left a little before sunrise, pushing further into the valley. I didn’t think we were missing much from a photographic point of view. The actual sunrise and sunset moments don’t do it for me, they’re too fast and yield far too much contrast. We got to the end of the pavement and followed signs into the actual vlei. Immediately, the path turned into deeper sand than anything we’d seen until now and driving actually became a little tricky. I was careful not to slow down too much in the deeper parts and waited to stop for photos where rock or clay came close to the surface.

The parking area was right next to the pan and a few 4x4’s were already in the shade of big trees. The sun had come up now and heat would be increasing rapidly. We wished we’d brought our coffee maker and stove. Marie opted for a low walk on the perimeter of the pan and I headed up the main dune. She soon called me back to show me not one, nor two, but four owls in a short tree. Again, life was everywhere.

Then I went back to my climb along the curved edge of the dune above us. There wasn’t much wind at all and I could already sense the temperature difference between the shady area down below where Marie was still wearing her sweater and my location on an exposed ledge. I took a few pictures of sand creatures, a large beetle and some funny, very rapid lizards.

As I reached the sharp summit of the dune, I met a couple in shorts and scandals. They were coming from the opposite direction and we exchanged polite pleasantries, unable to break the ice in such sizzling heat, all of us probably humbled by the scenery and feeling like we didn’t belong and were trespassing. We negotiated our way past each other carefully, not because of the narrowness of the ridge but to avoid adding unnecessary footprints to the slopes. They headed down slowly and then, at last, I was alone.

I felt like I had just fallen off the face of time itself. Bouncing in my mind were many half-forgotten history and geography classes, and as many books and movies I’d fed my dreams with throughout the years. It all came down to this moment, so simple and yet so expertly carved by the chisels of destiny and chance. This was Africa. I had sand in my shoes. The woman of my dreams was down below extricating the smallest beautiful details out of a magical fresco. The desert all around was fiercely frying my skin - because it was meant to do so - but secretly chilling me to the bone, reminding me how old and powerful it was and how insignificant I’d remain, long after having returned to civilization.

Mine was a moment of triumph, of utter victory over nothing but time and abstract obstacles, one that I wouldn’t be allowed to take home with me. It had to be lived through and left behind for someone else to find. The best I could do was freeze it in stills and attempt to collect samples of the heat and extraordinary play of light and shadows and tones, in digital bits, for later.

I sat down on the edge of the dune with my back to the sun, camera in hand, eyes lost on the heat-blurred horizon. This, I thought, had to be the reason why explorers and pioneers are what they are, and why they keep going despite bitter suffering and unfair sacrifices. It is only by pushing the limits outside that one eventually catches a glimpse of who’s hiding inside. And then the dream becomes, dune after dune, wave after wave, rope length after rope length, one difficult step at a time, to understand it all.

Defined tags for this entry: , ,

 

2009-03-01 19:56 • Posted in On the road: & Photoblogs: & South Africa: 7 Comments » Toggle display • Reply
next page
(Page 1 of 10, totaling 93 entries)