trip journal

Celebrating Memories, Feb. 16-March, 2, 2009

The tribe assembles-Mon. Feb 16: Ten-strong, we meet at Dulles Airport for our 14-day southern Africa sojourn. The Brits - Norma will meet us in Joburg; Yvonne and Marva in Capetown (CT). We’re loaded up with electronics and enough “snacks” to sustain us should our tour organizer, Kenneth Hieber, abandon us. By 5:45 pm we’re in the air. Our 14.45-hour flight to Joburg begins. . . Try to read Michael Pollan’s In Defense of Food. Give up, turbulence is too much. Forget about journal writing, my hands are shaking. Gradually, I exhale, reach for my ipod and turn to my faithful travel companions, Lucky Dube and the Dixie Chicks.
Tuesday morning coming down-Feb 17: The airplane lights come on at 6:55 am EST. Stubbornly, I refuse to set my watch to South Africa time, 7 hours ahead. What a night! Liz and Jackie sleep like babies. I watch in disbelief as, despite the turbulence, people visit each other, exercise in the aisle, chomp their way through SA airline’s on call food service, listen to music and watch movies throughout the night. One bright spot occurs at about 1 or 2 am EST, when Kamau comes over and asks me to watch the ethereally beautiful Tuesday morning sun rise over Africa. Acres and acres of fields, interspersed with city clusters, give way to a skyline crowded with tall buildings and life as far as the eyes can see as we taxi into OR Thambo International Airport at 3:50 pm (SA time). We receive a warm African welcome to Joburg - no Customs to clear. Our money changers level off at about US$1/R9.34. Kenny, our English-speaking guide (actually, he speaks seven languages) is waiting. The Rosebank Hotel, and their ever charming mangers, Rufus and Trevor, are a beautiful intro to Joburg. Part art-deco, part afrocentric, the property and its service is the gold standard by which all others thereafter are measured. Norma joins us. Donnette, Karen and I hit the streets. The others relax into the comfort of the hotel’s opulent bar/lounge.
Jamming in Joburg-Wed. Feb 18: Wake up with what would be many days of low-grade headaches. The sights merge in a kaleidoscope of part new, part strangely familiar co-existence of uptown and downtown. . . Mandela’s stately home in Houghton, an area which reminds us of upscale neighbourhoods such as Stony Hill in JA; Constitutional Court (Hillbrow) where we met the illustrious Justice Albe Sachs. We leave Joburg, jump on the expressway lined with industrial parks and head towards storied SOWETO where posters about AIDS and World Cup 2010 jostle for space on walls and fences. The homeland throbs with life. We drive by the homes of Winnie Mandela; Mandela’s first home, purchased in 1946, which he never had a chance to enjoy for long and Bishop Desmond Tutu’s. Tour the Hector Pieterson Memorial Museum marking the deadly 1976 Soweto student protest against the imposition of Afrikaans as the language of education; Regina Mundi (catholic) Church, shot up by the police in 1976; Thambo Square and the metal/prison bar-themed Apartheid Museum, dominated by a hulking yellow tanker, symbol of apartheid state force. Sweet, exquisitely crafted metal gates and metal encrusted carved wooden doors grace many Soweto homes. No in your face prison bars here. Beautiful homes. Yet I see long lines of shanties in the distance. And all along, we are greeted with cries of the global gold standard, “Obama.” On our return to the city, Donnette, Karen, Jacky and I hit the streets again. Karen and Jacky are trapped in an elevator, itself gated with metal bars, at a mall for over half an hour. I can see the JA headlines: Jamaican doctor and lawyer sisters behind bars. J Luckily, the lone person working after hours in the building frees them.
Joburg Farewell-Thur. Feb 19: First stop, en route to the airport for CT, is Mandela Square at the city’s new enclave of the rich, Stanton, for a photo op with a giant statue of Mandela. Next stop, Bruma Lake Flea Market… a bit disappointing, but some people clean up. The 2-hour flight to CT is uneventful. Not so, the downtown Southern Sun, where we would spend five nights. Dem neva ready. Liz’s response to the attempted diss by a desk clerk of Asian extraction was swift. She filed a report to her boss and suggested that the young miss might do better in Accounts, away from people. Our response to being herded on a smelly smoking floor is decisive. We are relocated to non-smoking floors. Yvonne and Marva are alerted to our presence by the sound of our voices on the sleeping floor... Welcome to the Cape, a vast region of incredible diverse ecosystems, traditionally home to the privileged. Don’t mind the expanse of euphemistically labeled “informal settlements” that greet us on leaving the airport. The fabled 3,000 ft high Table Mountain, backdrop to the city, beckons seductively. Take my first sleeping pill, ever. Slept. Sorta.
Table Mountain/Robben Island bookends-Fri. Feb 20: AB, our tour guide, is strict about our 8:30 am departure. When we get to Table Mountain, we understand why… short line, clear mountain top. Composed of sand fossilized over a million years, and set to disintegrate in 10 million years, the 360 degree view is a visual feast that ratchets up the minute our cable car begins the ascent. Our formidable sister photographer, Monica, is in her element, snapping away, much to the admiration of a certain gentleman. We have been to the mountain top. Next stop is the Malay Quarter, a picturesque Malaysian enclave, dotted with distinctive, brightly painted houses, rivaling each other for attention. Then it was District 6, a neighbourhood that had “disappeared” when it was declared Whites Only during apartheid. I’m dog-tired by the time we get to the District 6 museum, dedicated to memorializing this painful past. . . sit out this museum.
…even from the ferry, with its flat expanse of buildings and guard lookout towers rising in exclamation points, Robben Island gives me the chills. Here is where Nelson Mandela spent most of his 27 years behind bars in solitary confinement. Boarding at about 2:30 pm from Mandela Gateway, the ride across Table Bay is about an hour. Now a site of remembrance, maybe reconciliation, our tour guide was a former five-year political prisoner from the Soweto student uprising. Highlight of the tour is eyeballing Mandela’s cell, the cold concrete outfitted with a tiny “bed”, table, chair and slop pail. We drive past the huge stone quarry, the prison’s day work release programme for its political prisoners. Robben Island is a very quiet place. Our guide on the bus that took us to the cells is a proud SAfrican dread. He shared that CT is home to a settlement of SAfrican Rastafarians. We got back to the Cape a very sombre crew. The mantra, “the price of freedom is eternal vigilance,” swirls around in my head. The choppy sea and the captain’s breakneck speed don’t help.
Wine Tasting and cellar tour-Sat. Feb. 21: Wine country here we come. The KWF winery is an impressive mix of ancient art and modern distillery technology. Home to five of the world’s largest vats, by tour end of this vast operation, we are primed for the tasting. And tasted we did, even the non-imbibers. To think I wondered why I was coming so far to tour a winery when California is at my doorstep. Drakenstein, Mandela’s last prison before he takes the long walk to freedom, is our next stop for a photo op. Then it was the African-themed, Moyo Village, CT’s version of Disney Land, for lunch and wine tasting. . . a sumptuous smorgasbord of food, clever reworking of indigenous craft into the venue’s architecture and non-stop music impress. I’m in awe of the beautiful grounds of this park and the general countryside. No wonder people fought so long and hard to be equal citizens in this beautiful country.
Rest Day, Sun.-Feb. 22: As somebody in the group said, “I’ll rest when I’m dead.” Ignoring AB’s warning, I take and early morning walk around the hotel’s environs. A flower stall ablaze with colours and the hypnotic sound of singing from a church whose entrance I cannot find, blows the cobwebs from my head. Having done my reconnaissance and discovered a market two blocks away, we all walk down to “bargain” shop. Finally, exhausted from pitting wits with the vendors, we retreat to the welcoming waterfront to dine and shop.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY…to the end of the Earth with Liz-Mon. Feb. 23: This is where Liz wanted to spend her birthday and here we are. As we drive out for a day of sightseeing along the Atlantic coast, we pass Poolsmor, Mandela’s penultimate place of incarceration. Hmm, nice beaches (almost as nice as ours), beautiful homes, beautiful people, and long stretches of desolate, preserved flat lands. At what cost? 40% unemployment? Finally, we reach the Cape of Good Hope, the most southwesterly point of Africa. It’s 22 degrees celsius and windy. We bundle up and get out for a photo op. To Liz’s dismay, AB tells us the awful truth. The Cape of Good Hope is not where the Atlantic and Indians Oceans meet. The Indian Ocean is actually hidden behind a mountain “island.” It is “the junction of two of earth’s most contrasting water masses,” warm currents from Mozambique and cold currents from SA’s west coast. Lunch at Two Oceans Restaurant, watch baboons cavorting on the narrow mountainside road, visit Boulders to see the penguins colony and a whistle stop to the Botanical Gardens round out our day-trip . . . By 9 pm, cameras and video ready, we await Liz’s grand entrance into the hotel’s dining room, turned party central. A picture is worth a thousand words. But, since the cameras are pointed on Liz, let me tell you how we break into smiles, applause and song when Liz, fashionably late, sashays down the steps and over to our table, her svelte, toned body seemingly poured into a 30s style, pewtery/silvery curve-defining number, complemented by her close-cropped golden tresses and subtly sparkling jewelry. Our girl is saying “One!”… Our last night in CT. We linger over drinks, open the presents, read the cards, prepare for the next level of the journey.
SA farewell…held to Ransom-Tue. Feb. 24: With only an hour or two of sleep, by 4:30 am we are downstairs for our ride to the airport. Marva and Yvonne stay behind.
SA, twice the size of Texas and home to every mineral except oil, has won our hearts. We leave AB, not knowing what’s up ahead with our next “English- speaking” guide. We return our phones. Our virtual travelling companions are no longer with us.

The flight to Joburg, then to Zimbabwe, goes well. Inside the Victoria Falls International Airport, Zimbabwe, we, the Jamericans, are held to ransom. $45 for double in-transiting Zimbabwe and $50 for Zambia. We don’t mind paying, but the on the ground fee information is miles apart from the Embassy’s Internet spiel. To add insult to injury, Charmaine’s two pieces of luggage are missing and Jackie’s one with her medication. There’s a little dust up with some folks who think they are entitled to be ahead in the line because they are a group. We are also a group, we remind them. I’m mesmerized by the palpable poverty. I notice that people are thin for this first time on the trip. It is one thing to be thin by choice, another from want. Or is it that my Americanized eyes have grown accepting of the overfed and undernourished? Zimbabwe is a mineral-rich country, the envy of the developed world. We stop at the Zimbabwe/Zambia border and for the first time feel vulnerable. To the world, we look liked well-heeled “mellowed-out” Americans. Our scenic drive to the Zambia border is a little under an hour, and to the hotel, another hour. The “native” welcome at the Zambezi Sun hotel, nestled in Mosi-Oa-Tunya National Park, is reminiscent of Jamaica’s “carry me ackee go a Linstead market ” song and dance crap carted out for the tourist. Aaah, well, the hotel’s clientele IS upmarket, got to feed the fantasy. Later, we chill out on the sundown cruise on the soothing Chobe River, relaxed by excellent service, and generous servings of drinks and nibbles. We have dinner at the hotel’s Squires Restaurant, voted one of the best purveyors of hamburgers by Monica and Sheryl. Paul would be our charming waiter for the rest of our stay. As I drift off to sleep, I remind myself that city life is of the past. Not after Donnette and I happened on a majestic pride/herd of zebras when we went for an exploratory walk this evening.
Monkey Business…Victoria Falls-Wed. Feb. 25: I watch in amazement as a monkey snatches an apple from a man’s hand as he is leaving the dining room. Another grabs something from our table on the porch. Monica and I retreat to the far corner of the dining room. I spend the day chilling. The others, decked out in an assortment of bathing suits, raincoats, flip flops, anything they can afford to get wet, walk down to the Falls, one of the world’s seven natural wonders. The reports describing the depth and span of the mist from the Falls – fabulous, majestic, unbelievable, “is like you taking a bath” – are glowing. Wrought out, they spend the rest of the day by the pool. Monica and I didn’t make it all the way to the Falls. However, you can see the mist of water rising as if to touch the skies from the airplane and hear its mighty roar from the hotel. Alone, in the evening, Monica and I start off for the falls. We didn’t get very far. Following our intuition, we decline a young man’s advice to take a particular path, and return to the hotel . . . better safe than sorry. Sidebar: Kamau surrenders his father’s ashes to Victoria Falls and its environs. Liz and Donnette enjoy high tea as guests of the Royal Livingstone Hotel, a short ride away, at the other end of our hotel’s property.
The Crossing-Thur. Feb. 26: We all, separately, return to the Falls in the early hours of the morning for our final homage. This early, a giant mass of shimmering mist, seared from top to bottom with a glistening double rainbow unfolds with each step. Standing on the viewing bridge, I make two wishes. Our final day in copper-rich Zambia, and still no definitive word on the luggage. We laze around to wait it out with Charmaine and Jacky. Thanks to deft behind the scene work, the luggage is delivered to cheers at 10:30 am. In high spirits, Jacky, Sheryl (wielding a spear plucked from a dancer) and Karen outdance the young, nimble male “native” farewell dancers at their own dance. . . in the emotional high of the moment, certain relationships go into a freeze. Mercifully, things thaw by trip-end. The drive to the river that separates Zambia from Botswana is a little over an hour. Liz’s enduring memory of the crossing is the sight of our luggage piled on a little boat plowing through the river and finally disappearing from sight, even as we hope that we would be united with it on the other side. “Strapped” in lifejackets, we follow in another boat.

Our hotel for the next three nights in Botswana, famous for game and diamond mines, is the Chobe Lodge. Housed on the 11,700 square kilometer Chobe Reserve, the reserve is pretty much all we see of Botswana. Our only detour was a short boat ride over to Namibia for a “tour” of an authentic Namibian village. When I eyeballed the hotel’s lizard theme, replicated in metal and generously adorning walls, I sighed in resignation. Welcome to the other Africa where the animal is king. After lunch (lots of meat, including game) we cruise the Chobe River that runs through the reserve. A foretaste of what was to come, we see elephants and buffalo’s galore, as well as other small game. Ubiquitous monkeys roam the hotel’s property. When we return for bed (and the rooms are a lovely, safari chic), Kamau finds a rat in his room. The staff takes care of it. They assure me that there are four traps in my thatch ceiling and if they go off in the night, I’m not to worry. A sign on our door warns about walking the property at nights, as X animals are unpredictable. Lordy, lordy.
Safari 1. . . big four-Fri. Feb. 27: By 10 am we’re on safari, suitably decked out as per Kenneth’s instructions. Boots? For what? To outrun animals? Even when we made an outdoor “rest” stop, Diane, our five-year veteran tour guide/spotter, said he couldn’t guarantee our “hundred percent safety.” With Sheryl as our spotter and videographer, we drive over quiet, flat grasslands as far as the eyes can see. The certain knowledge that wild animals are out there is unnerving. I feel a little safer when Diane tells us that animals don’t just attack without warning. I learn more about wild animals, especially the big five, than I ever wanted to. Shortly into the drive, rain from nowhere begins to pelt us. Interesting to see how the animals are unmoved while we huddle under raincoats. The rain disappears as quickly as it came. The safari is a resounding success. Everybody return to the lodge beaming. I am not as rapturous, but it was an amazing experience. We see the big four. Elephants galore. A lion (ess) feeds on the carcass of an elephant (Charmaine, from her binocular vantage point, describes this as “magnificent” and there are mutterings about the circle of life) as the jackals and vultures wait their turn from a respectful distance. That pecking order is a compelling sight. Buffalos, the most unpredictable of the big five, are plentiful. And, the piece-de-resistance, a leopard in full big cat hunting mode, oblivious to the six, open-sided jeeps packed with camera-clicking tourists, maybe 3-6 feet from him, watching his (?) every move. The shrill cacophony of “informer” birds flying overhead and tracking the leopard’s every mood, complete this dramatic tableau, which we watch for over 30 minutes. The rhinoceros, the missing big five, we won’t see because it is endangered and has been temporarily removed from the reserve for safety. We saw other biggies such as giraffes, the tallest animals in the world, and hundreds of impalas. Small animals from the antelope family, their size makes them natural preys. What a life!
Liz and Steve go on an ill-fated dinner cruise on the Chobe River. After they and their meal are “attacked” by gnats, believe that’s what they were, they call off the evening. They join us in a sitting area where we are lazing around. We all leave for bed when a frog “invades” the space.
Safari 2, close up & personal-Sat. Feb. 28: Karen and I pass on the safari. She tries speed-reading Norma’s book. I laze around the pool until the monkeys come a calling. The group returns ecstatic from their adventure with three lions; elephants that appeared as their jeep rounds a corner, whom then flank their vehicle close up and personal, AND a leopard, again stalking it’s prey. Kamau, a fount of information, had the best time of everybody, I believe. I know my limitations, the accuracy of which was confirmed when they said that had I been on the safari, I would have gone into cardiac arrest. One more day to go! We linger over dinner. Everybody wants to go home. I sip a beer at the bar with Steve, our final bond of friendship.
Homeward Bound-Sun. March 1: Our tour bus arrives, minus the attachment for our luggage. Two immigration stops in a journey of about two hours and we’re at the Zimbabwe Airport. We tip the luggage handlers generously. If our luggage doesn’t get on the plane to Joburg, we can kiss it goodbye. Note to ourselves: tipping is a budget item. Our flight to Joburg is a little under two hours. At the airport, we complete our shopping. Out of Africa saves the day. We bid Norma au revoir.
Exhausted and sleepy, we settle in for our 6:30 pm flight home, unperturbed by turbulence. The plane is packed. Eight hours into our 18-hour flight to Dulles, we stop in Dakar, Senegal for refueling. We leave the brightly lit city after an hour, about 9:10 pm DC time, 12:30 am their time. An urgent call for a doctor blares over the intercom. Karen and Monica respond. What next, Liz and I wonder? Props to the medical team are generous from the airline. And from us, thanks, guys. . . Mon. March 2: What next is the landing. At our estimated 6:08 am arrival, we are still above the clouds, circling the airport. The pilot assures us, no worries, we have enough fuel. Then we see the streets, AND the tarmac, blanketed with DC’s famous March snow. We touch down at 8:30 am to applause for the pilot. Props to the SA airline! Home at last for the DC/MD people, and later that day for the Florida and California folks.

I know for sure that on my own, there’s no way I could I have pulled off such a glorious trip, the experience of a lifetime. Thanks to Liz and Steve, ably assisted by Donnette, for doing their best to keep Kenneth on course, and warding off anything or anybody who stood in our way of a good time.

Jean (adapted from my personal journal)