Cape Town - A Different View
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Thursday, April 1, 2010
SOUTH AMERICAN BUS COMPANIONS
"Kiwi", as she was nicknamed, was the first person I sat alongside on a long, overnight bus journey in Argentina. A shy, non-talkative, middle-aged Bolivian woman on her way back home. In response to my interested expression she gave me a detailed monologue of the beautiful plaza I was gazing at just outside of Buenos Aires where we left. Unable to comprehend how a person couldn't speak Spanish, she continued to ask me questions in an ever-increasing annoyed tone. She did, however, give me one of the three kiwi-fruits she was carrying, and thereafter removed herself and her belongings to a vacant seat a few rows back. She returned a few hours later, easing my hurt feelings (not to mention the cold seat next to me). But salt was added to the wounds when the bus driver announced I was at my destination. The old bag knew I was departing the bus and so took up her original place, with me out of the picture. the kiwi-fruit giving still baffles me. Maybe where she is from it is a hoax. Who knows ... she might have even attempted to poison me with it. Travel hint to others: learn how to speak Spanish before boarding public transport, or risk your life being seated among the elderly.
"The snorer", be it male or female, who periodically passes gas in their relaxed state. This scenario occurred on more than one occasion while I travelled through Bolivia and Peru. I am sure most people can sympathise, having been in a nearby seat to one of these oblivious souls before.
"The drunk, obese, excuse for a human being" who takes up more than is comfortable of your already-tiny seat, squashing you into the corner of the side of the bus while he/she spills fat rolls and sausage appendages into the isle.
My experience of a the latter goes a little further. The former frunk (fat drunk) who passed out half on top of me momentarily awoke to a blurred world through his drunken stupor. Without realising, he sang at the top of his lungs to whatever hideous song was blaring from his over-loud earphones. This was synchronised by flinging flabby arms and sausage fingers wide open. During one of these outbursts I received an unexpected blow to the head, followed by a minor knock from the follow-through of blubber which followed his limb's actions like a wake.
He got up at some point during the night, probably in search of more beer. I took the opportunity to retrieve my toes of my bag, placing it carefully on the beer-soaked seat beside me - now dented with indistinguishably wide buttock cheeks. Before I knew what was happening, a giant shadow covered my bag, followed by the heavy load of the frunk. He had passed out on his feet, which gave way, and gravity forced his body downwards onto my bag. The attempt at politely waking him proved fruitless. I proceeded to push with all my strength, growing increasingly worried that my camera and other belongings were on their way to material heaven, smelling of beer. Not a pleasant way to leave this life. I eventually managed to pull my bag out from under his heavy hind, unscathed.
After waking the entire bus and missing the toilet bowl at the back of the bus, the frunk was threatened to be kicked off the bus. He left for a mere ten minutes at one stop but, to my dismay,was back next to me by the time we started moving again. Needless to say I had a sleepless night, guarding my chest area in wait for the unpredictable arm-flinging outbursts which continued well into the uncomfortable hours of the morning. The looks of sympathy from other passengers I glanced back at through exhausted eyes where the most genuine I have ever seen.
Then there is the “screaming kid” who must be dehydrated from so much tear and snot loss at the end of ten hours. As for the rest of us ... deafness, sky-rocketing irritation levels, headaches and another sleepless night. Add a grumpy man who makes it his life's purpose to make it impossible for you to cross over him to go to the toilet (at this point I would like to point out what a luxury it is to have a toilet on the bus, even if it is the size of a cardboard bus, spells of urine and lacks toilet paper), and you are guaranteed a third world bus experience.
This brings me to Jorge. Not much company on the bus as he slept half the time and ate the rest, but a genuinely pleasant day we spent together. I made contact with him the previous night via email, arranging to fly over the Nazca lines the next morning as my bus arrived in Nazca, southern Peru. Jorge was a tour guide and was recommended by the travel guide I had. Having arranged the fee and details, I arrived at five in the morning, on the street as the bus companies operated independently from small offices just off the main highway. Not knowing where I was, in the dark hours of the early morning, a solitary female, no Jorge in sight, I seeked refuge at the closest hotel I could find, laughing at myself to have thought something this casual could have been pulled off. But, to my surprise, one phone call later and Jorge and I were shaking hands in greeting.
Jorge had been drinking coffee waiting for me, a simple explanation. The sceptic in me kept looking out for signs of having been ripped-off as we took a taxi to the small airport. The deal we had seemed a bit shady, and could have been had it have happened with another guide. the weather was coming in and even though I was amongst the first to arrive at the fixed-wing runway, I had to wait three hours before boarding a six-man plane. The standard price and airport tax where the only other necessities I was charged. Jorge kept me informed of the progress.
The weather cleared eventually to a cloudless day and I squeezed into the first available single seat. I had booked last minute whereas some tours where arranged a year in advance. It helps being single on occasion and knowing the right person to go through. Even thought I had a dent in my wallet after the flight and an uneasy stomach, I was ecstatic. The 40 minutes in the air were breath-taking. A certificate and Peruvian broach from Jorge were a nice touch.
We walked back to the bus stop via a friend's house, a local potter who makes ceramic replicas, dated BC, of Nazca, Moche and Paracas cultures. The full-on demonstration I received of how a piece is made using clay and later painted made the sceptic in me wonder if this was just for show. But the genuine manner and easy attitude of the man when it was clear I was not going to buy anything made me warm to him.
Jorge accompanied me on the next bus to the next major city. He was meeting his niece and taking her to the cinema. On arrival he made sure I was safely on my next bus before even thinking of saying farewell. The tip I gave him felt like too little and too much at the same time as I felt he deserved more than what I could afford but then again it felt wrong paying someone who had become my friend. A promise from me to stay in touch and a promise from him to see the movie I had recommended left us both feeling as though we had gained the most of our time together. A warm hug later and I was on yet another bus, happy for the empty seat next to me for the first time.
"The snorer", be it male or female, who periodically passes gas in their relaxed state. This scenario occurred on more than one occasion while I travelled through Bolivia and Peru. I am sure most people can sympathise, having been in a nearby seat to one of these oblivious souls before.
"The drunk, obese, excuse for a human being" who takes up more than is comfortable of your already-tiny seat, squashing you into the corner of the side of the bus while he/she spills fat rolls and sausage appendages into the isle.
My experience of a the latter goes a little further. The former frunk (fat drunk) who passed out half on top of me momentarily awoke to a blurred world through his drunken stupor. Without realising, he sang at the top of his lungs to whatever hideous song was blaring from his over-loud earphones. This was synchronised by flinging flabby arms and sausage fingers wide open. During one of these outbursts I received an unexpected blow to the head, followed by a minor knock from the follow-through of blubber which followed his limb's actions like a wake.
He got up at some point during the night, probably in search of more beer. I took the opportunity to retrieve my toes of my bag, placing it carefully on the beer-soaked seat beside me - now dented with indistinguishably wide buttock cheeks. Before I knew what was happening, a giant shadow covered my bag, followed by the heavy load of the frunk. He had passed out on his feet, which gave way, and gravity forced his body downwards onto my bag. The attempt at politely waking him proved fruitless. I proceeded to push with all my strength, growing increasingly worried that my camera and other belongings were on their way to material heaven, smelling of beer. Not a pleasant way to leave this life. I eventually managed to pull my bag out from under his heavy hind, unscathed.
After waking the entire bus and missing the toilet bowl at the back of the bus, the frunk was threatened to be kicked off the bus. He left for a mere ten minutes at one stop but, to my dismay,was back next to me by the time we started moving again. Needless to say I had a sleepless night, guarding my chest area in wait for the unpredictable arm-flinging outbursts which continued well into the uncomfortable hours of the morning. The looks of sympathy from other passengers I glanced back at through exhausted eyes where the most genuine I have ever seen.
Then there is the “screaming kid” who must be dehydrated from so much tear and snot loss at the end of ten hours. As for the rest of us ... deafness, sky-rocketing irritation levels, headaches and another sleepless night. Add a grumpy man who makes it his life's purpose to make it impossible for you to cross over him to go to the toilet (at this point I would like to point out what a luxury it is to have a toilet on the bus, even if it is the size of a cardboard bus, spells of urine and lacks toilet paper), and you are guaranteed a third world bus experience.
This brings me to Jorge. Not much company on the bus as he slept half the time and ate the rest, but a genuinely pleasant day we spent together. I made contact with him the previous night via email, arranging to fly over the Nazca lines the next morning as my bus arrived in Nazca, southern Peru. Jorge was a tour guide and was recommended by the travel guide I had. Having arranged the fee and details, I arrived at five in the morning, on the street as the bus companies operated independently from small offices just off the main highway. Not knowing where I was, in the dark hours of the early morning, a solitary female, no Jorge in sight, I seeked refuge at the closest hotel I could find, laughing at myself to have thought something this casual could have been pulled off. But, to my surprise, one phone call later and Jorge and I were shaking hands in greeting.
Jorge had been drinking coffee waiting for me, a simple explanation. The sceptic in me kept looking out for signs of having been ripped-off as we took a taxi to the small airport. The deal we had seemed a bit shady, and could have been had it have happened with another guide. the weather was coming in and even though I was amongst the first to arrive at the fixed-wing runway, I had to wait three hours before boarding a six-man plane. The standard price and airport tax where the only other necessities I was charged. Jorge kept me informed of the progress.
The weather cleared eventually to a cloudless day and I squeezed into the first available single seat. I had booked last minute whereas some tours where arranged a year in advance. It helps being single on occasion and knowing the right person to go through. Even thought I had a dent in my wallet after the flight and an uneasy stomach, I was ecstatic. The 40 minutes in the air were breath-taking. A certificate and Peruvian broach from Jorge were a nice touch.
We walked back to the bus stop via a friend's house, a local potter who makes ceramic replicas, dated BC, of Nazca, Moche and Paracas cultures. The full-on demonstration I received of how a piece is made using clay and later painted made the sceptic in me wonder if this was just for show. But the genuine manner and easy attitude of the man when it was clear I was not going to buy anything made me warm to him.
Jorge accompanied me on the next bus to the next major city. He was meeting his niece and taking her to the cinema. On arrival he made sure I was safely on my next bus before even thinking of saying farewell. The tip I gave him felt like too little and too much at the same time as I felt he deserved more than what I could afford but then again it felt wrong paying someone who had become my friend. A promise from me to stay in touch and a promise from him to see the movie I had recommended left us both feeling as though we had gained the most of our time together. A warm hug later and I was on yet another bus, happy for the empty seat next to me for the first time.
LAKE TITICACA, SOUTH AMERICA
Overlooking the vast expanse of Lake Titicaca's water, I have to remind myself that I am finally on Isle del Sol (Island of the Sun). It has been a lifelong dream of mine to travel this historically rich area where the ancient Inca civilization began. Said to have been born here, this southern island has been under the watchful eye of Pachamama, mother earth.
According to Inca mythology, The Sacred Rock at Challa'pampa, a village on the north of the island, was the first place the sun ever touched. To the east of this land mass, the northern Cordillera Real in Peru line the horizon with snow-capped peaks. To the west, the barren purple-brown hills of Bolivia greet the morning's sun.
At 3800 meters above sea level, what should have been a three to four hour walk, took us five and a half hours. Our party of three acclimatised rather well, when I compare us to the other gringos (tourists) who have suffered terrible headaches, dizziness, nauseousness, etc. for consecutive days.
Most people who visit the Isle del Sol, and its neighbouring Isle del Luna - Island of the Moon, catch a ferry from Copacubana on the mainland to the island's southern village, Yumani. But, as we preferred to take the road less travelled, we walked to the northern peninsular on the mainland and arranged to be rowed the short distance to the island's southern point. Here, there is an old Inca Palace, part of the ruins which are visited on the island.
Our bargaining skills as South Africans came in handy and we were soon in a small wooden boat used by local fisherman. The chilly wind being blown in from the Cordillera Real made the journey longer than expected.
We still had another hours walk up to the village on the old Inca trail. We passed terraced fields, typical of Inca cultivation, still used by locals today. It was early evening when we walked the trail along with shepard girls and boys bringing their stock home for the night. The many sheep, donkeys and llamas strewn between us added a rural charm which was most welcoming.
We dined on quinoa (local crop) soup and trout fresh from the lake. Our moonlit walk back to our humble accommodation overlooking the lights of Bolivia and Peru on either side respectively, was well worth the freezing air we suffered. Comfortable warm beds was all we required, a nice change from our previous nights accommodation.
After a hearty breakfast on top of the village's ridge, we set off for the day's walk to the north of the island. Over hills, along more Inca roads and through scenery blessed by Pachamama, we made our way to the ruins on the northern point of the island. We were saturated with awe by the time we came to the small fishing village.
Arranging transport back to mainland proved a challenge as we had done the island backwards, compared to the other gringos. There was only one boat leaving the following morning, three times as much for non-locals.
Our night proved to be as entertaining as any other. A cold, quick swim was followed by rum and coke on the beach, watching the cattle being herded back along the shore. And to heat up we made our way to a local hole-in-the-wall restaurant for more soup and trout. The daily set-menus where real value for money.
Once back on the mainland the following day after an hour-and-a-half boat ride, we said farewell to Bolivia over one last meal of fresh trout.
According to Inca mythology, The Sacred Rock at Challa'pampa, a village on the north of the island, was the first place the sun ever touched. To the east of this land mass, the northern Cordillera Real in Peru line the horizon with snow-capped peaks. To the west, the barren purple-brown hills of Bolivia greet the morning's sun.
At 3800 meters above sea level, what should have been a three to four hour walk, took us five and a half hours. Our party of three acclimatised rather well, when I compare us to the other gringos (tourists) who have suffered terrible headaches, dizziness, nauseousness, etc. for consecutive days.
Most people who visit the Isle del Sol, and its neighbouring Isle del Luna - Island of the Moon, catch a ferry from Copacubana on the mainland to the island's southern village, Yumani. But, as we preferred to take the road less travelled, we walked to the northern peninsular on the mainland and arranged to be rowed the short distance to the island's southern point. Here, there is an old Inca Palace, part of the ruins which are visited on the island.
Our bargaining skills as South Africans came in handy and we were soon in a small wooden boat used by local fisherman. The chilly wind being blown in from the Cordillera Real made the journey longer than expected.
We still had another hours walk up to the village on the old Inca trail. We passed terraced fields, typical of Inca cultivation, still used by locals today. It was early evening when we walked the trail along with shepard girls and boys bringing their stock home for the night. The many sheep, donkeys and llamas strewn between us added a rural charm which was most welcoming.
We dined on quinoa (local crop) soup and trout fresh from the lake. Our moonlit walk back to our humble accommodation overlooking the lights of Bolivia and Peru on either side respectively, was well worth the freezing air we suffered. Comfortable warm beds was all we required, a nice change from our previous nights accommodation.
After a hearty breakfast on top of the village's ridge, we set off for the day's walk to the north of the island. Over hills, along more Inca roads and through scenery blessed by Pachamama, we made our way to the ruins on the northern point of the island. We were saturated with awe by the time we came to the small fishing village.
Arranging transport back to mainland proved a challenge as we had done the island backwards, compared to the other gringos. There was only one boat leaving the following morning, three times as much for non-locals.
Our night proved to be as entertaining as any other. A cold, quick swim was followed by rum and coke on the beach, watching the cattle being herded back along the shore. And to heat up we made our way to a local hole-in-the-wall restaurant for more soup and trout. The daily set-menus where real value for money.
Once back on the mainland the following day after an hour-and-a-half boat ride, we said farewell to Bolivia over one last meal of fresh trout.
Four day dessert tour, south-west Bolivia
"By travelling, we discover not only this beautiful, awe-inspiring earth; we also discover our humanity, and that of others."
- Dana Snyman, 'On the Back Roads'
Somewhere along the trip I sat overlooking a white mineral lake in the remote south-west Bolivia. The space was immense, the temperature uncomfortably cold, and the sun harsh. This environment cannot tolerate the weak. I only saw one wild animal species during the four day tour - an antelope named vekunas. Fortunately, they have enough hair to keep them warm. They are a close relative to the alpaca and llama, and are sadly now endangered. The domesticated sheep and llamas roaming the countryside do so with frost-bitten hooves. It is a harsh place to live, but unforgivably beautiful.
We left Tupiza early on the first morning after some warm mate and tamales. Climbing up mountains of craggy pinnacles, we felt a pang of danger sitting in the Land Cruiser. The views continued to get increasingly magnificent. That night we stayed with a local Quechua family in a small village. It was the coldest I have ever been. The water in the toilet froze, so it's not hard to imagine what the streams looked like.
Waking up at four in the morning to negative fifteen degrees celcius is no joke, but we all pilled into the vehicles and watched the stars float past our windows as the driver took us into the semi-dessert. We stopped at a view point just after sunrise at 4855 meter above sea level. It was high, it was cold, we were out of breath. Every time we got out of the vehicle to take photographs or find a rock to go to the loo behind, we almost froze. Our fingertips and toes were constantly numb, even inside the vehicle. But excitement and amazement made it bearable as we walked amongst geysers, steaming and boiling. The warm ground and sulphuric air were made the landscape even more foreign.
On the third day I sat on gorgeous forms of larva rock looking at a smoking volcano. Lunch was prepared by our driver's wife while we played amongst the curious shapes of the larva field. "Amigos," we were called to eat. The sun had at least warmed us up a bit after unbearably cold start to the morning. The water in the basin had frozen the previous night, making the teeth-brushing episode quite a challenge as we were forced to brace the air outside. As the day ages, we drove into a Salvador Dahli painting where huge rocks were strewn on sand-dune foothills.
The sheer beauty of the country amazed me, despite it's challenging temperatures. We drove past several lakes, all frozen. The dessert and blue skies emphasised the white borax mineral on the water's edge. The famous green and red lakes, however, took my breathe away, especially as the sun set and the afterglow from the day's cold and windy sun gave rise to intense pinks and blues on the horizon.
On the third and final night we stayed in a salt house on the edge of the world's largest salt pan. Driving from the quaint setting over the salt flats in the early hours of the following morning, I wrote to the light of the moon through my window. We huddled close together for the drive over the white salt to our sunrise breakfast spot. It looked as though we were driving through a vast isolated landscape of snow, the road never changing ... and never ending.
It was truly an amazing trip through dramatic semi-dessert and dessert scenery. The altitude, ridiculously cold temperatures and eventual stench after four days of no showering was insignificant compared to the beauty I saw. As the moon gradually sank into the western horizon on that final morning, I smiled to myself, knowing I have experienced the untamed Bolivia.
- Dana Snyman, 'On the Back Roads'
Somewhere along the trip I sat overlooking a white mineral lake in the remote south-west Bolivia. The space was immense, the temperature uncomfortably cold, and the sun harsh. This environment cannot tolerate the weak. I only saw one wild animal species during the four day tour - an antelope named vekunas. Fortunately, they have enough hair to keep them warm. They are a close relative to the alpaca and llama, and are sadly now endangered. The domesticated sheep and llamas roaming the countryside do so with frost-bitten hooves. It is a harsh place to live, but unforgivably beautiful.
We left Tupiza early on the first morning after some warm mate and tamales. Climbing up mountains of craggy pinnacles, we felt a pang of danger sitting in the Land Cruiser. The views continued to get increasingly magnificent. That night we stayed with a local Quechua family in a small village. It was the coldest I have ever been. The water in the toilet froze, so it's not hard to imagine what the streams looked like.
Waking up at four in the morning to negative fifteen degrees celcius is no joke, but we all pilled into the vehicles and watched the stars float past our windows as the driver took us into the semi-dessert. We stopped at a view point just after sunrise at 4855 meter above sea level. It was high, it was cold, we were out of breath. Every time we got out of the vehicle to take photographs or find a rock to go to the loo behind, we almost froze. Our fingertips and toes were constantly numb, even inside the vehicle. But excitement and amazement made it bearable as we walked amongst geysers, steaming and boiling. The warm ground and sulphuric air were made the landscape even more foreign.
On the third day I sat on gorgeous forms of larva rock looking at a smoking volcano. Lunch was prepared by our driver's wife while we played amongst the curious shapes of the larva field. "Amigos," we were called to eat. The sun had at least warmed us up a bit after unbearably cold start to the morning. The water in the basin had frozen the previous night, making the teeth-brushing episode quite a challenge as we were forced to brace the air outside. As the day ages, we drove into a Salvador Dahli painting where huge rocks were strewn on sand-dune foothills.
The sheer beauty of the country amazed me, despite it's challenging temperatures. We drove past several lakes, all frozen. The dessert and blue skies emphasised the white borax mineral on the water's edge. The famous green and red lakes, however, took my breathe away, especially as the sun set and the afterglow from the day's cold and windy sun gave rise to intense pinks and blues on the horizon.
On the third and final night we stayed in a salt house on the edge of the world's largest salt pan. Driving from the quaint setting over the salt flats in the early hours of the following morning, I wrote to the light of the moon through my window. We huddled close together for the drive over the white salt to our sunrise breakfast spot. It looked as though we were driving through a vast isolated landscape of snow, the road never changing ... and never ending.
It was truly an amazing trip through dramatic semi-dessert and dessert scenery. The altitude, ridiculously cold temperatures and eventual stench after four days of no showering was insignificant compared to the beauty I saw. As the moon gradually sank into the western horizon on that final morning, I smiled to myself, knowing I have experienced the untamed Bolivia.
CAMPFIRES
Campfires … primitive peoples use them as a means of survival for heating, cooking and fending off potentially dangerous animals. Modern man makes use of a campfire for the odd bit of enjoyment; a weekend braai or winter warmth accompanied by a glass of red wine. I prefer to think of them as a way to interact with people from all walks of life. Unlike other public places where groups of people socialize, a complete stranger will be accepted into the hospitality of the flames. It is in such warm environments that I have met some indescribably interesting people who have burnt a lifelong impression on me.
While making a cup of tea with the last of the tea leaves from my camping box, I began reminiscing. Now, this is not just any tea … it was given to me by a particularly eccentric character I met around a campfire one memorable night while living in Namibia. I realized that I have met some of the most interesting people around the fire.
One in particular happens to be this gentleman, Fredrik. I had heard about him from some colleagues and his peculiar reputation intrigued me. Being a vegetarian, almost unheard of in the meat-eating society of the desert, he travels around with a huge basket full of fresh fruit and vegetables in the back of his Land Rover. His vehicle can be easily identified in this landscape by the trail of fruit-flies in his wake, not the average dust cloud which follows others.
Having spent an evening in his company around the campfire at Puros, north-west Namibia, I feel privileged to have met him. Not only because he gave me a container of his tea concoction, but because he has the ability to give off part of his endless energy, to enlighten all who listen to the wonders of nature and to make one realize how grateful we should be for this gift of life.
It was by accident that Fredrik ended up camping with us one night. The Hoarusib River near Puros had been in flood for a few days, obstructing the track which ran through the normally dry river bed. Under the cover of Acacias we made a fire and the kettle was immediately placed next to a cozy flame.
Before thoughts about what tin should be opened to flavour the staple pap, Frederik was fluttering about the fire place with a one litre tin mug. I approached the fire, my own humble-sized mug in hand, and asked if the water was boiling; to which he tossed a teaspoon of what looked like dried herbs and sticks into my mug, topped it up with steaming water from the spout of a singing kettle, and smiled a triumphant voila. This, he informed me, was his own brew made from different local plants and spices.
I sipped the flavoured water through closed teeth to sieve the insoluble pieces floating in my mug, of which there were many. I was skeptical, but first impressions aside, it was one of the most delicious warm beverages I have tasted to this day (and this is coming from someone with an adventurous pallet).
The star-filled evening continued until eyes had to be rested. We had touched on topics which were beyond the average campfire conversations. Every time Frederik spoke, even if he was voicing a humble opinion, his audience was captivated by his enthusiasm and passion. The tea leaves never quite settled on the firmness of the mug bottom as mugs were continuously being topped up. If I were that kettle I would have taken a well deserved retirement package after the tea-soaked conversations we enjoyed. I finally had to lay my mug to rest after I had stayed up long after the others gazing at the remaining glow of the fire, content.
The river had subsided during the night, making it passable for 4X4 vehicles. Frederik was off at first light, taking his loveable ambiance and basket of fruit-flies with him. I was not to see him again, but he had left me an old jam bottle filled to the brim with his tea. Even as the last of my tea supply dies, the memory of that night around the campfire will live on.
On a more primeval encounter, there have been the many faces and names I cannot pronounce of the Himba people whose fires I have shared in north-west Namibia. Not being able to communicate on a verbal level presented an interesting challenge, one which embellished humility upon my life.
While making a cup of tea with the last of the tea leaves from my camping box, I began reminiscing. Now, this is not just any tea … it was given to me by a particularly eccentric character I met around a campfire one memorable night while living in Namibia. I realized that I have met some of the most interesting people around the fire.
One in particular happens to be this gentleman, Fredrik. I had heard about him from some colleagues and his peculiar reputation intrigued me. Being a vegetarian, almost unheard of in the meat-eating society of the desert, he travels around with a huge basket full of fresh fruit and vegetables in the back of his Land Rover. His vehicle can be easily identified in this landscape by the trail of fruit-flies in his wake, not the average dust cloud which follows others.
Having spent an evening in his company around the campfire at Puros, north-west Namibia, I feel privileged to have met him. Not only because he gave me a container of his tea concoction, but because he has the ability to give off part of his endless energy, to enlighten all who listen to the wonders of nature and to make one realize how grateful we should be for this gift of life.
It was by accident that Fredrik ended up camping with us one night. The Hoarusib River near Puros had been in flood for a few days, obstructing the track which ran through the normally dry river bed. Under the cover of Acacias we made a fire and the kettle was immediately placed next to a cozy flame.
Before thoughts about what tin should be opened to flavour the staple pap, Frederik was fluttering about the fire place with a one litre tin mug. I approached the fire, my own humble-sized mug in hand, and asked if the water was boiling; to which he tossed a teaspoon of what looked like dried herbs and sticks into my mug, topped it up with steaming water from the spout of a singing kettle, and smiled a triumphant voila. This, he informed me, was his own brew made from different local plants and spices.
I sipped the flavoured water through closed teeth to sieve the insoluble pieces floating in my mug, of which there were many. I was skeptical, but first impressions aside, it was one of the most delicious warm beverages I have tasted to this day (and this is coming from someone with an adventurous pallet).
The star-filled evening continued until eyes had to be rested. We had touched on topics which were beyond the average campfire conversations. Every time Frederik spoke, even if he was voicing a humble opinion, his audience was captivated by his enthusiasm and passion. The tea leaves never quite settled on the firmness of the mug bottom as mugs were continuously being topped up. If I were that kettle I would have taken a well deserved retirement package after the tea-soaked conversations we enjoyed. I finally had to lay my mug to rest after I had stayed up long after the others gazing at the remaining glow of the fire, content.
The river had subsided during the night, making it passable for 4X4 vehicles. Frederik was off at first light, taking his loveable ambiance and basket of fruit-flies with him. I was not to see him again, but he had left me an old jam bottle filled to the brim with his tea. Even as the last of my tea supply dies, the memory of that night around the campfire will live on.
On a more primeval encounter, there have been the many faces and names I cannot pronounce of the Himba people whose fires I have shared in north-west Namibia. Not being able to communicate on a verbal level presented an interesting challenge, one which embellished humility upon my life.
ABOUT THE EDITOR
Below is a summary of what makes me unique and able to produce unique work. Sit back and enjoy the adventure ...
I have indulged in three ice creams a day in Italy, drunk litres of freshly squeezed juices from street vendors in Peru, feasted on king prawns in Mozambique, sipped on the finest whiskeys in Scotland and nursed pints of cider on those rare sunny days in English beer-gardens.
I have lived with the Himba people in Namibia. I have made my home under the stars, alongside river banks, in a tent, in backpacker hostels, in my bakkie and on the beach. I have slept in a salt house on the largest salt pan in the world. I have experienced days peaking into the 50 degree celcuis bracket and nights dropping to almost negative 20, while trying to survive in a tent.
I have skinny dipped in the Indian, Atlantic and Pacific Oceans, Lake Kariba, Lake Titicaca, in a loch, in the highest and coldest lake in Wales, in many a mountain stream and many a farmer's dam (without permission).
I have touched the birthplace of the sun, according to the Inca Culture. I have seen burning stars, active volcanoes, canyons, geysers, tropical islands, giant jellyfish, tiny naudibranchs and wilderness areas flourishing with wildlife. I have trekked in the South American Andes up to 5000 meters above sea level, dived in the Red Sea, cycled the Sierre de Grazalema in Spain, watched the sunrise from Mount Sinai millennia after biblical Moses recorded the Ten Commandments.
Modes of transport I have explored have included my feet, bicycle, a horse, donkey, camel, sheep, motorbike, four-wheeler, helicopter, cattle truck, 4X4, airplane, bush-plane, boat, ferry, tram, underground and train. For a short, unforgettable moment, my body - and then a parachute, transported me back down to earth ... I flew with the eagles.
My lungs have been deprived of air in Egypt's tunnelled pyramids and in the high altitudes of the snow-peaked Peruvian Andes. I have explored icy caves extending from castles in Wales, played chess in a field of fluffy llamas in Bolivia, paddled by the moonlight and braaied in the middle of the Orange River. I have practised yoga surrounded by mother nature's friendly wind and have heard trance-like chanting cut the desert silence on breathless nights. I have carried another off a mountain, and have been carried by my instincts. I have read poetry by candlelight and picked lavender posies by the waxing moonlight. I have painted and sold, and I now keep a buddah to hold.
I have watched burning sunsets and energising sunrises in desert plains and over city high-rises, from mountain tops as well as from flat encircling oceans. I have gazed in awe at the moon from behind the steering wheel, from inside my sleeping bag and from deserted beaches. I have been honoured with two white rainbow sightings in my life. I believe I have witnessed Utopia in the star-filled skies.
I have cut open baby seals, marked hyena latrines, been chased by desert lions, tracked black rhino, run alongside giraffe and documented plant species to further my Nature Conservation studies. I live in constant awe of mother nature's artwork and have been humbled by her merciless power many times. I have taken injured limbs to a physiotherapist more than I like to admit because I do not know when to stop 'overdoing it'. This physical condition is an outward expression of who I am, choosing to live life at full throttle.
I have been through seven consecutive months without washing my hair. I have held seven baby skaapsteker snakes in my mouth at once. I have lived in areas where the seven day week is of no importance.
I have worked in the film, education, hospitality and tourism industries.
I have been taking photographs since before I had my first kiss. I have been passionately writing and travelling for many years. I have gained experience and knowledge; more will be acquired as I carry on the adventure which is my life. I write expressively. I capture moments photographically. I live life!
I have indulged in three ice creams a day in Italy, drunk litres of freshly squeezed juices from street vendors in Peru, feasted on king prawns in Mozambique, sipped on the finest whiskeys in Scotland and nursed pints of cider on those rare sunny days in English beer-gardens.
I have lived with the Himba people in Namibia. I have made my home under the stars, alongside river banks, in a tent, in backpacker hostels, in my bakkie and on the beach. I have slept in a salt house on the largest salt pan in the world. I have experienced days peaking into the 50 degree celcuis bracket and nights dropping to almost negative 20, while trying to survive in a tent.
I have skinny dipped in the Indian, Atlantic and Pacific Oceans, Lake Kariba, Lake Titicaca, in a loch, in the highest and coldest lake in Wales, in many a mountain stream and many a farmer's dam (without permission).
I have touched the birthplace of the sun, according to the Inca Culture. I have seen burning stars, active volcanoes, canyons, geysers, tropical islands, giant jellyfish, tiny naudibranchs and wilderness areas flourishing with wildlife. I have trekked in the South American Andes up to 5000 meters above sea level, dived in the Red Sea, cycled the Sierre de Grazalema in Spain, watched the sunrise from Mount Sinai millennia after biblical Moses recorded the Ten Commandments.
Modes of transport I have explored have included my feet, bicycle, a horse, donkey, camel, sheep, motorbike, four-wheeler, helicopter, cattle truck, 4X4, airplane, bush-plane, boat, ferry, tram, underground and train. For a short, unforgettable moment, my body - and then a parachute, transported me back down to earth ... I flew with the eagles.
My lungs have been deprived of air in Egypt's tunnelled pyramids and in the high altitudes of the snow-peaked Peruvian Andes. I have explored icy caves extending from castles in Wales, played chess in a field of fluffy llamas in Bolivia, paddled by the moonlight and braaied in the middle of the Orange River. I have practised yoga surrounded by mother nature's friendly wind and have heard trance-like chanting cut the desert silence on breathless nights. I have carried another off a mountain, and have been carried by my instincts. I have read poetry by candlelight and picked lavender posies by the waxing moonlight. I have painted and sold, and I now keep a buddah to hold.
I have watched burning sunsets and energising sunrises in desert plains and over city high-rises, from mountain tops as well as from flat encircling oceans. I have gazed in awe at the moon from behind the steering wheel, from inside my sleeping bag and from deserted beaches. I have been honoured with two white rainbow sightings in my life. I believe I have witnessed Utopia in the star-filled skies.
I have cut open baby seals, marked hyena latrines, been chased by desert lions, tracked black rhino, run alongside giraffe and documented plant species to further my Nature Conservation studies. I live in constant awe of mother nature's artwork and have been humbled by her merciless power many times. I have taken injured limbs to a physiotherapist more than I like to admit because I do not know when to stop 'overdoing it'. This physical condition is an outward expression of who I am, choosing to live life at full throttle.
I have been through seven consecutive months without washing my hair. I have held seven baby skaapsteker snakes in my mouth at once. I have lived in areas where the seven day week is of no importance.
I have worked in the film, education, hospitality and tourism industries.
I have been taking photographs since before I had my first kiss. I have been passionately writing and travelling for many years. I have gained experience and knowledge; more will be acquired as I carry on the adventure which is my life. I write expressively. I capture moments photographically. I live life!
Thursday, October 1, 2009
CAMPING, BIKES AND WINE; September '09
CAMPING, BIKES AND WINE
An awesome weekend up the west coast!
Rash (above) and the sunset along the wild, rocky west coast at Tietiesbaai. This campsite is situated in the Cape Colombine Nature Reserve just outside the small fishing village of Paternoster.
Tea stop and a game of Scrabble, in the middle of a random road!
Above: The local bouncer at the Marmelade Cat coffee shop in Darling.
Below: 'ello Desmond ... some of the hand crafted gifts to buy at the Marmelade Cat.
South Africas west coast is magical. Conditions are harsh, with dry and cold winds and an unforgiving sun, but it is charismatic and beautiful. It will definatly have you coming again!
Spring is flower time and many people visit the west coast areas to view the intense colours of fields full of wild-flowers.
The picnic basket is never lonely!
Our home for the night, sea view and all. 
... and a shy little Shiraz it was ...
... cheers!
The lighthouse in the Cape Colombine Nature Reserve is one of the few still manually operated in South Africa. 
Good morning, coffee and rusks!
The girls and the bikes. 
Spring is flower time and many people visit the west coast areas to view the intense colours of fields full of wild-flowers.
The picnic basket is never lonely!
Our home for the night, sea view and all. 
... and a shy little Shiraz it was ...
... cheers!
The lighthouse in the Cape Colombine Nature Reserve is one of the few still manually operated in South Africa. 
Good morning, coffee and rusks!
The girls and the bikes. 
Good timing on our side, there was a biker ralley in Paternoster that weekend. We had loads of fun just checking out the scene, the bikes and some of the interesting characters that rode in on them.
Darth Vader?
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