Australia, Part I

   “So you agree, you think this our best option? OK, cool.” A click of the mouse and our fate was sealed, we would spend six weeks living out of a van in Australia. We would soon come to find out why the van we rented was by far the cheapest option, and also why it was dubbed “The Rookie”; because nobody who had ever spent any time living in a van would willingly subject themselves to doing so in the tiny piece of shit my wife and I had just put a deposit on. Live and learn, as they say.

    After spending the previous six weeks traveling through seven different countries, we were excited to arrive in Sydney, where we could slow the pace a bit and begin our tour of Australia’s east coast. I was also anxious to resume my identity as a traveling surfer rather than just another tourist. Unfortunately, the boards and wetsuits I had shipped from home before we left hadn’t arrived on schedule and were still a few days out. By this time we had learned that if you want to make it through an extended period of traveling while maintaining your sanity, you have to be able to roll with the punches. So we said, “No worries, mate,” and headed west of Sydney into the Blue Mountains, gladly leaving the hectic pace and ridiculous prices of the city behind us.

    Once in the Blue Mountains, we spent several days settling into life on the road and in a van. We cooked meals on our single gas powered burner, hiked, swam and bathed in cold mountain streams, and grew accustomed to dawn wake ups thanks to a chorus of assorted parrots and kookaburras. On clear nights we opened the sun roof and lay on our backs staring at the dazzling night sky from the comfort of our cozy little bed. The entire continent of Australia has a population just over 24 million people, while our home state of Florida alone harbors over 20 million individuals. This means far less light pollution, and far better star gazing Down Under.

    When we found out my boards were actually a couple of weeks, not days, out, we decided it was time to steer our new home in a southerly direction. After roughly eight hours driving and an overnight stay at a highway rest stop, we passed Melbourne and arrived in Torquay in the southeastern corner of Australia. Torquay is a famed surfing hub, and home of Bells Beach, one of the world’s most infamous surf breaks. It’s the supposed location where Bodhi wrestles Johnny Utah on the beach before paddling out for one last epic ride at the end of the cult classic “Point Break”. It’s also the home of a legendary surfer/shaper (who shall remain nameless) from whom I had ordered a board before leaving home. Unfortunately, he had since gone radio silent on me, so I had no idea if there was a board waiting for me or not, and if so how to find him. Not to worry though, surely this would be as good a place as any for me to find a board and wetsuit that I could use until my treasured shipment arrived.

    After scouring all of the surf shops in town, I was disappointed to find they were almost entirely comprised of corporate sellouts full of pop out, mass produced crap. At one of the few locally owned shops, we found a couple of drunk guys offering free beer, “shit hot” deals, and a few good laughs. We left with a half priced Smurf blue wetsuit, smiles on our faces, and a slight buzz. I did a little asking around and encountered a bit of eye rolling and comments like, “good luck,” and, “your board will be done in two years,“ when I inquired as to where to find the elusive shaper who may or may not have a board waiting for me. Thanks to the good people at the Patagonia store though, I was given a demo board to use for a couple of days while I continued my search, and had my first surf session in almost two months. After a few days of surfing in the area, driving the Great Ocean Road, and several failed attempts to link up with the afore mentioned shaping legend, I settled on a used board I came across that I felt would be a good stand in until my boards arrived from home.

    One night, on a dirt road just outside of town where we had been told we could park the van, I was awoken from a sound sleep to a flashlight shining through the curtains and someone shouting, “Excuse me!” Half asleep still, I stood up through the open sun roof, expecting to find a cop telling me we couldn’t stay there. Instead, I found three drunk men in an SUV who had apparently spotted us on their way home from a night on the town. Shining a flashlight in my eyes, one of them asked, “How much money you got on ya?” I thought something along the lines of “oh shit” and quickly responded in knee-jerk fashion, “I don’t have any fucking money,” and lowered myself back inside the van. I figured they were most likely just being typical drunken idiots looking for amusement, and didn’t actually pose any real threat to us. There was part of me that wanted to call their bluff and tell them that I’d bet the 500 dollars we had in the van that I was going to get out and knock someone’s teeth down their throat. But, on the off chance they were the kind of drunk idiots who fancied floggin’ a yank, as they call us Americans, as form of amusement, I figured leaving my wife in the van while I got my ass kicked by three guys in a gravel parking lot at 3AM wasn’t the best course of action. So, I chose to ignore them in hopes they would lose interest and move on, which after being initially irritated that I didn't play along and slinging some profanity in my direction, is exactly what happened. As dumb as this might sound, we parked in the same place the next night. You see, finding somewhere you can park and sleep in your vehicle is difficult in certain places. I really thought it was a few drunk guys who thought they were being funny, and that it was an isolated incident. When we woke up again to headlights shining in, and then someone peeling out and spraying our van with gravel, we decided enough was enough and left Torquay behind us with the confirmation that no matter how friendly the general population, there are assholes everywhere.

    From there we slipped to the south of Melbourne and headed east to a national park called Wilson’s Promontory. We spent the day exploring the coast and walking a few trails in search of surf and wildlife. While there was a little surf to be had, it wasn’t quite enough to prompt me to paddle out by myself in such a desolate place, on a continent known to have a healthy population of great whites lurking the coastline. As far as wildlife is concerned, we managed to spot amongst the thick bush a red wallaby, a wombat, an echidna, and a poisonous tiger snake.

    After Wilson’s Promontory our route took us in a general northerly direction back up the east coast towards Sydney, where we would eventually rendezvous with my surfboards before continuing further north along the coast. We cruised in our van through rolling hills, rural farmland, small coastal towns, and eucalyptus forests. We spotted kangaroos, wallabies, parrots, kookaburras, a few wild emus, ducks and black swans, and were even lucky enough to see several wild koalas. At every opportunity we sampled meat pies from the local bakery, and ate lamb sausages the thought of which still makes my mouth water. We marveled at the amount of open spaces and pristine, untouched coastline we found everywhere we went. There wasn’t much in the way of swell during this part of our trip, but on most days I found something fun to ride while Wendy explored deserted beaches. Coming from a place where it seems people think the best way to utilize an expansive area of natural beauty is to drain it, clear cut it, pave it, and throw a condo or housing development on it, it almost doesn’t seem possible that there could still be such places.

    During Easter weekend, fearing that finding a place to park overnight would prove extra difficult, we decided to post up in one of the many caravan parks that are spread throughout Australia. Reluctantly, as we had been staying in free campsites so far, we paid the 35 AUD per night to have our own designated strip of grass to park on for three days in a field next to a seaside lake. This gave us access to hot showers (we had been bathing in the ocean and cold, public showers at the beach), bathrooms, laundry, and a kitchen. When we first pulled in, people around us were friendly, but we couldn’t help but feel we were getting a few odd looks. As the weekend progressed, the reason for those looks became clear. There we were in our grass block, with our tiny rental van, two camp chairs, and a rickety table for two. Meanwhile, we were surrounded by extravagant camper setups complete with big screen TVs, recliners, covered porch areas, boats, grills, lights and solar panels to charge it all. It was like going to a multi day SEC college football tailgate, but without the football. We could only laugh at how pitiful our own setup was, and decided it was time to break the budget a bit more and invest in some beers. We also couldn’t help but think it was a bit odd that all these people wanted to spend their weekend camping out in a parking lot surrounded by other people. It seemed most of them weren’t even there for the beautiful beach, but rather preferred to hang out in their designated rectangle of grass that they had filled with hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of gear. On a two mile walk down the beach we probably didn’t see more than ten other people, while there must have been a few thousand in the camp. It seemed to us it would have been easier and more relaxing just to stay at home and watch TV if that’s what you’re after, but to each his own I suppose. It was an interesting and unexpected window into a slice of Aussie culture.

    One of our most interesting and memorable stops along the way originated, in part, as something I thought might be a good way to appease my wife between my lengthy and frequent surf sessions. In a beautiful area known as the Sapphire Coast in the town of Eden lies the Killer Whale Museum. Here we stumbled upon the remarkable story of Old Tom, an individual orca who led an extended family comprised of three pods. At the turn of the 20th century, he forged a unique collaboration with a shore based whaling station to hunt baleen and sperm whales. In short, one pod of the orcas would intercept a whale at sea and drive it into a large bay, where the second pod awaited to seal off the exit. The third pod waiting inside the bay would then take over where the first had left off, and continue harassing and tiring the whale. At this point Old Tom would swim to the whaling station and begin leaping out of the water to alert the whalers. Once the boats were launched, he would often become impatient with their slow progress and take a bow line in his teeth, towing them to the site where the rest of his pod had the whale trapped. Now the whalers could carry out the grizzly and dangerous task of harpooning and killing the whale, which was their end of the deal. After the deed had been done, the whale was left for the orcas, who would feast upon only the lips and tongue. Apparently this was enough to make this mutually beneficial relationship worth their while. The next day, when gases of decomposition brought the carcass to the surface, the whalers would drag what remained to shore for harvest.

    In 1930, believed to be about the age of 35 years, Old Tom was found dead in the bay. The people there believed he had returned home to die. After his death the orcas never returned to hunt with the whalers, and without their help the shore based whaling station closed down. Old Tom’s skeleton was preserved and is on display in the museum. If you look at his teeth, you can see a groove between two of them where he so often held the bow line of a whaling boat. It’s an extraordinary story that illustrates the incredible intelligence, understanding, and thinking ability these animals possess, along with a remarkable level of communication with one another.

    As the days went by we found ourselves again approaching Sydney. One early morning as I surfed a couple hours south of the city, a friendly stand up paddle boarder said casually as he passed, “I’m not sure if I feel better or worse knowing there’s a big chunk of meat hanging from that buoy.” “Come again?” I replied, as his words sunk in. I had noticed orange and yellow buoys, usually a few hundred years beyond the break, in several places I had surfed over the previous two weeks. Apparently they are a response to a troubling number of shark attacks along the Australian coast in recent years. From the orange buoys are hung large chunks of tuna or some other tasty treat on a big hook. The idea is that if a shark is in the area it will zero in on the bait, eat it, and hook itself. The buoy then sends a signal to a fisherman tasked with monitoring it, who drags the shark out to sea, tags it, and releases it. The idea, according to my new friend, is that it’s such a traumatic experience for the shark that it never returns. The yellow buoys will pick up a tagged shark’s signal if they swim near enough. I didn’t get any word on how many sharks had or hadn’t returned based on tracking data from the yellow buoys. It’s an interesting theory, and after being informed about it, I too was unsure whether it made me feel better or worse whenever I spotted a buoy outside the lineup.

    With word that my boards had finally arrived, we made our final push into Sydney, and began to sense the rise in population density coinciding with our rise in blood pressure. Once the boards had been cleared through customs and were finally in my possession, we hastily continued on northward and back into the refuge of small town Australia.

                To be continued.....

Let’s Fun

     As I observed my surroundings, I couldn’t help but be amused by the irony. Here we were in  Thailand, listening to two Thai men play music written by a black man from Jamaica, who himself was a product of someone, “Stolen from Africa, brought to America.” Passionately belting out the lyrics of Bob Marley’s famous “No Woman No Cry” was a white, dreadlocked Frenchman, accompanied by his black French countryman. Yet they both prefer to waive the flag of Brittany, a Celtic region of Northern France, formerly independent before the French Revolution. Meanwhile there we sat, two white people from the USA amongst a company of Spanish, German, French, Finnish and Argentinian guests, all seeking the increasingly elusive authentic cultural experience. I glanced down at the koozie that housed my cold beer. It read, “Full Moon Party” across the top, with a picture of some people dancing, and “Let’s Fun” across the bottom. I can only assume it was the product of a Thai person who speaks less than perfect English attempting to appeal to English speaking tourists. 
     It was then that I had something of an epiphany. This IS an authentic cultural experience. We are observing the evolution of humanity in the 21st century. If extraterrestrials were sent to Earth today with the mission of studying modern humans, they would likely witness some variation of what was just described. Sure, there are still places you can go that remain relatively untouched by the outside world, but in the age of the internet and airline travel, nobody lives in a vacuum. Every corner of the globe is now connected, and everything is becoming homogenized. And it is not all bad. In fact, it was a beautiful scene we were witnesses to. Multiple continents, countries, political affiliations, religious backgrounds, languages and ethnicities together in one place, sharing food, drink, music, friendship, and happiness.
     During our time in Thailand we visited ancient temples, kayaked through limestone caves and mangrove forests, viewed prehistoric cave drawings, sampled strange foods at a night market, traveled by bus, ferry, scooter and tuk tuk, and took a course in freediving on a tropical island. Still we never really found the cultural immersion we thought we were seeking. Instead we encountered other tourists at every turn, there was usually someone around that spoke at least enough English for us to communicate, the food was loaded with cheap processed sugars and MSG, and much of the jungle had been replaced with rubber tree and palm plantations. Sometimes though, you stumble upon something that expands your views in an unexpected way, which is exactly what happened to us that night.  
     For far too long I have ignorantly thought of culture as something stagnant, something that stands the test of time unchanged. But that is not accurate. Cultures and customs didn’t simply spring into existence one day. Like a living entity, they evolved along with humans themselves, influenced all the while by individual and community experiences in the surrounding world. And of course, the evolution continues. That is what evolution does, it’s constantly morphing, adding and subtracting, keeping that which is functional and discarding the rest.
     It is a wonderful thing to maintain traditions and distinctions that make us who we are. At the same time, there is always something to be learned from every person, community, and situation we encounter, regardless of whether the experience is positive or negative. We live in a time where we have the unique opportunity to learn from every civilization that exists or whose previous existence we are aware of. How foolish it would be indeed to encounter another race, society, or individual and not take something away from the experience, not add to your own story from what they have to teach. If our ancestors hadn’t done that, had our species made it this far, we would all be shivering and grunting at each other, naked in the darkness of some damp cave, with no language, clothes, tools, or fire. Yet we are all guilty of dismissing viewpoints that differ from our own. There’s a sense that things should remain just as we see them, even though our view is a tiny sliver of existence, because that’s what we’ve always known. But regardless of how difficult it can be to accept, change is inevitable. By all means, cling to your roots, but don’t forget about the rest of the tree. Climb to the top and peer out over the horizon with an open mind from time to time, and you may just realize there’s always another angle from which to view the world. As with all things in life, the key is finding balance, remembering who you are and where you came from, while also moving forward, keeping an open mind, and learning from new experiences. I will remain interested to witness who among us, if any, can accomplish such a feat as Earth spins into the future. 

Dust and Bones

    I’ve often thought that I was born during the wrong era of human history, and would have been happier in a hunter/gatherer society. Let’s be honest, work in the modern sense sucks, and is an unfortunate part of the weekly routine for most of us. If you disagree with the previous statement, ask yourself this: how many people do you know who would go to work tomorrow if they weren’t getting paid, just because they like it so damn much? Personally, I love being outside, and work is mostly a way of supporting the things I really want to do, which include surfing, hunting, fishing, and spearfishing. Many a sleepless night have I spent on the river, fishing or gigging flounder. I’ve run the boat through pre dawn darkness with sleet stinging my face, and trudged through alligator infested marshes for a shot at some ducks. My legs have cramped and my lungs have burned as I swam in pursuit of fish and lobster. My arms have turned to noodles from paddling through the surf for hours on end in order to harness the invigorating power of nature via surfboard. I’ve stood cleaning fish and plucking ducks until my back ached, and headed shrimp until my fingers were raw. I have no issue putting in long, exhausting hours in those pursuits. It makes me feel alive, connected to nature, and puts delicious, healthy, fresh meals on the table. But when it comes to making money, the passion just isn’t there for me. Unfortunately though, I have to pay the bills, and I don’t really want to be pulling crab traps as a commercial fisherman until I’m dead, so I find myself in a bit of a bind. 
    Recently on our travels through Tanzania, Wendy and I had the opportunity to get a glimpse into the lives of the Bushmen, an ancient tribe who’s members still live off the land much the way I would imagine prehistoric groups of homo sapiens lived tens of thousands of years ago. Their primary food sources are fresh meat, wild potatoes, and honey. In fact, they are the only people in Tanzania who are still permitted to hunt wild game. They are also the only people allowed to smoke marijuana, a fact that I cannot deny piqued my interest. They fashion their own bows and arrows, admittedly with a little assistance from the neighboring tribe these days in the form of metal arrowheads for their big game arrows. They also use poison arrows for particularly large quarry. The poison comes from a spider, which we fortunately did not have the displeasure of meeting.  
    We were shown to the Bushmen village by a man from the neighboring Maasai tribe, who acted as a translator for us. That detail was critical, as we would have been completely lost with their strange clicking language. Entering a small clearing on a dry, dusty, shrubby hillside, there we found them, the men and boys gathered about a small fire, and the women and girls off to the side in their own small group. They were scantily clothed with a combination of animal skins and a few articles of modern clothing they had acquired somehow. We were greeted kindly, and briefly shown the small camp. Animal hides hung from the trees here and there, a few dogs were lazily strewn about in the dust, and towards the back were a few tiny, open air shelters made from sticks. 
    More pressing issues awaited though. I was handed a bow and small quiver of arrows, and given a brief demonstration on how to use them. One of the men, probably in his early twenties (though we were told they don’t know their age as they have no education) quickly drew back and loosed his arrow at a stump thirty feet in front of us. Schwack! The arrow plunged deep into the center of the stump. I was impressed. Now it was my turn. I let two arrows fly in succession, and though neither found their mark, the bushmen seemed pleased with my attempt. Despite having more experience with a bow than myself, Wendy was only allowed to be a bystander as “hunting is for the men.” While that’s certainly not something I agree with, we had little choice but to honor their customs. 
    Just like that, the hunt was on. We were given the signal to follow, and off we went, several bushmen and myself armed with bows and arrows, and Wendy with a camera. A few quick whistles from one of the men brought five or six dogs suddenly to our side. The dogs would aid in the hunt by finding a wounded animal or perhaps treeing a monkey. As we moved through the bush, we pursued several birds to no avail. After 20 minutes or so, we had become somewhat dispersed over a few hundred yards. The men began shouting back and forth to each other, and soon it was brought to our attention that one of them had found a dik-dik he had shot the previous evening. A dik-dik is the smallest of the antelopes, and looks like a tiny deer crossed with a rabbit. As we reconvened, one of the men carried the dik-dik over his shoulder, arrow still lodged through the ribs and protruding from the chest. 
    A fire was quickly made in the old cliché caveman fashion of spinning a stick back and forth between your hands on top of a flat piece of wood to create an ember. As the fire gained strength, the bushmen made quick work of skinning and gutting the dik-dik. The dogs waited eagerly, for which they were rewarded with the entrails, leaving barely a trace. Then the stomach constants were emptied onto the ground, after which the bushmen took turns ripping pieces of the stomach off with their teeth and consuming it raw. I’d like to think of myself as being a rather adventurous and open minded person, but I must admit I breathed a sigh of relief when the stomach was gone and I hadn’t been offered any. As this was happening, the reproductive organs (it was a male) had been severed and tossed on the fire, and after cooking for a few minutes, were consumed fur and all by one of the bushmen. That’s right, he ate a dik-dik’s dick (sorry, I couldn’t resist). I again breathed a sigh of relief. At this point the worst case scenario was I’d have to sample the brain, which was better than the previous possibilities in my mind. And by this time, the severed head had been thrown on the fire, so at least it would be cooked.
As we sat around the fire with them, they continued to throw small pieces of meat straight onto the coals to cook, of which they shared with both myself and Wendy, despite the fact that women aren’t generally permitted to go on hunts. We thought that was a nice gesture. At this point I noticed they seemed to be rolling a joint, and once complete one of them touched the end to the coals to light it. This time I grew hopeful for an offer to be extended, but it turned out to only be tobacco. Once select portions of the animal had been eaten and the cigarette was finished, the fire was extinguished and it was time to bring the rest back to camp for the women and children. The only thing not utilized was the stomach contents of the dik-dik. Everything else had either already been consumed, or was returning to camp to be consumed. To my further relief, the cooked head was carried back to camp, apparently to be snacked on later. As mentioned before, even the guts had been eaten by the dogs. To our amazement, the dogs also ate the hide, the hooves, and the nubby antlers. The lack of waste was impressive, and I felt somewhat sheepish thinking about how much waste we produce at home.
    Back at camp we had another round of target practice (perhaps they weren’t as satisfied with my previous attempts as I thought), and this time Wendy was even allowed to participate. That was followed by a bit of song and dance, during which I was pulled into the circle and spent several minutes basically shuffling around in the dust with the men and women of the bushmen camp. Meanwhile my wife hid behind the camera laughing at me and snapping photos. When the dancing was over we tried some of their other food staple, raw wild potato. It was semi-sweet, juicy, and quite fibrous. In fact I could still feel it lodged halfway down my esophagus an hour later. Then it was time to say our goodbyes, and several of the bushmen gave us an armed escort back down the path from which we had come. 
    In the previous weeks we had been in five different countries and were fortunate to see virtually every famous animal Africa has to offer. We watched elephants from mere feet away, witnessed several hyenas chase down a wildebeest calf, heard a lioness roar so close and loud it sent shivers of primal fear down our spines, and spent an hour in the jungle with a family of gorillas. After witnessing all of those amazing things and more, our glimpse into the life of the bushmen stood out to both of us as one of our most interesting experiences. Though I couldn’t understand what was being said during our visit, my feeling was that we really aren’t all that different. It was clear while we shared a meal around the fire with the men that they were enjoying each other’s company, laughing, joking and teasing. I thought of my friends at home and how we hunt and fish together, feast on our harvests, and give each other an incessant hard time. It struck me that this was basically how man has lived since he picked up tools and discovered fire. We could have been in the year 10,000 BC, and still I imagine the scene would have been quite similar, minus our Maasai guide answering his cell phone of course. Yet with so much of human history in between, and all of our advancements, the basic requirements remain the same. Food and friendship, love and shelter. We like to complicate things, but really everything else is just excess. 
    Having come from a world of modern convenience however, I am a product of my environment. A hot shower and cool air conditioning or central heat, and a clean, soft bed are wonderful things. Access to a plethora of foods, modern medical care, and the ability to travel the world and experience other cultures are all luxuries that enable us, if utilized properly, to expand our horizons and more closely fulfill our potential. The bushmen can make fire with two sticks, but he will never possess even a fraction of the knowledge of the world and universe that I do. His world is confined to what he can see and touch, or what a passer by might bestow upon him. He will never travel to another country, or see the ocean, never go to a concert or the movies or even read a book. He will not take his wife out to a nice dinner and have a few glasses of wine. He will remain there upon his dusty hillside, hunting monkeys and dik-diks and birds. And when he dies, likely relatively young, his companions will leave his body in the bush for the hyenas to crush his bones in their powerful jaws. Though the society I belong to has some massive flaws, perhaps I am when and where I should be after all. 

Muzungu in the Mist

    Genocide. That pretty well sums up my thoughts when my wife suggested we go to Uganda via a flight to Kigali, Rwanda. After all, the flights were cheaper into Rwanda, and the drive to our destination in Uganda would be half the distance. In case you are not aware, in 1994 Rwanda experienced a horrible 100 days of genocide, in which millions of people were brutally murdered at a rate faster than that of the holocaust. At the government’s bidding, neighbors took up machetes against their friends and community members, raping and slaughtering those who were not of their own ancestral tribe in a one sided massacre. But that was in the 90’s, it’s a new century now. So we figured what the hell, what could possibly go wrong for a young, white, American couple in the middle of Africa? Well, for starters your flight can get canceled, which is precisely what happened to us when, “The pilot’s screen went blank as he was landing.”  Just when we thought we had made it out of South Africa without incident, we were made privy to that tidbit of information, and sent back through security to collect our checked baggage. Then rest of the night we spent in the airport trying to figure out how or even if we could still make it to Uganda. After witnessing a near riot thanks to Kenya Airways having no clue how to deal with the situation, we eventually booked a flight on a different airline for the following afternoon, and checked into a hotel in the middle of Johannesburg as the sun rose, precisely where everyone had told us not to go. 
    When we finally arrived in Rwanda, we were greeted warmly by Allan, who would drive us the five hours to Karungi Camp in Uganda. Allan is the kind of person that makes you feel welcome and safe immediately upon the first handshake. Having just spent a few weeks in South Africa, where the feeling of racial tension and divide was prevalent, it was refreshing to feel that someone was happy we were there. After an overnight stay in Kigali, Rwanda’s capital, Allan drove us a few hours to the Rwanda/Uganda border. There we had our passports stamped and continued on our way a few hours further north, near the border of The Democratic Republic of the Congo. All along the way we witnessed people hard at work. These are poor countries, and without the luxury of machinery, everything is done by man power. Everywhere you looked someone was hoeing a field, making bricks by hand with clay and water, harvesting crops, or carrying corn, bananas, potatoes, and even vats of cows milk either upon their heads or stacked high on their bikes.
    A few thoughts dominated my mind as we passed through the country. The first was that in the westernized world, the average person is so reliant upon machines and other people to do everything for them, that most of us wouldn’t know where to begin if we were forced to be self sufficient. At home and in most of the “developed” world, when you need food you go to the store. Of course, some people have gardens, but how many people do you know that don’t grocery shop at least weekly? And yes, there are farmers at home, but there are no tractors here to till the fields, plant and harvest the crops, or spread fertilizers and insecticides. Would you like a house to live in? Well go fetch some water from a nearby stream, mix it with some clay you dug from the earth, and pour the mixture into a small wooden mold to form bricks. Once all of your bricks are formed and dried, then stack them into a chimney so that you can light a fire underneath in order to cook and harden them. Now you can disassemble the chimney and start on your house. I admired how hard the people were working, but also couldn’t help but notice how beaten down many of them looked. And why wouldn’t you be? Day after day, year after year of back breaking labor. We are very fortunate to come from where we do and have the luxury of leisure time, a grocery store, and enough wealth to go on vacation. I spoke previously of living in a bubble, where it is easy to forget the outside world even though we are aware of it. At home I have it so easy and get so wrapped up in myself that I worry about things like, “When will the surf get good?”, and, “Damn, I have to go to work again.”, rather than, “I have to make bricks and build a house.”, or, “If I don’t grow some corn and beans my family will starve.” Not that we are without our issues, but make no mistake, it is truly a life of luxury that we live. 
Another thing that stood out prominently was the destructive power and nature of man kind, even without the aid of modern tools and technology. Everywhere we looked it was plainly evident. The entire landscape had been transformed for the purpose of mostly subsistence farming. We drove for hours through what was once dense rain forest full of life, including endangered Mountain Gorillas, forest elephants, tree climbing lions, and chimpanzees. Now few trees were left standing, and every hill side was terraced and cultivated. A remarkable accomplishment of human ingenuity and willpower considering it was all done by hand and manpower, while simultaneously a tragic loss of biodiversity. 
    Most stirring of all though, I couldn’t shake from my mind this thought while we were passing through Rwanda: how old is that machete, and did the man wielding it, or someone else, use it to commit unspeakable deeds a little over two decades ago? It’s a morbid thought, but sadly and shockingly a reasonable one none the less. You start to realize as you look around that many of the people you see were old enough to at least know what was happening during those wretched months, and may have even contributed. The things that happened in my own country like slavery, the Civil War, even segregation and the civil rights movement were before I was born, and seem like ancient history in some ways. For me these are things you read about in a text book. Of course, some of the effects still linger, and we have a long way to go in many ways when it comes to true and tangible equality. But the fact remains that we’ve never experienced anything at home like what we felt in South Africa or Rwanda, knowing people our age were alive during the apartheid and genocide, and people our parents’ age could have been active participants.
One night as we sat around the fire and spoke with our new friends, they passed along a chilling conviction: they were in agreement that the genocide could and absolutely would occur again in Rwanda. They also warned us not to speak of it while in Rwanda if we didn’t wish to be thrown in jail. As sickening as it was to learn more about the genocide, it was even worse to think that the Rwandan people, and we as human beings, are failing yet again to learn our lesson and to accept those that are not like us. As we encountered different people during our travels I couldn’t help but wonder what was their life experience? What things did they know or not know? And what could urge someone to do such  horrible  things to their neighbors? If I grew up under the same circumstances and had the same experiences, could I be persuaded to do similar things? I would like to think the answer to that last question is no. I think it’s good to remember though that every person has a different human experience. Some are similar to your own, and some are light years apart. You never know what a person has been through. I also couldn’t help but think of my own country, and some of the political dissension we face at present. There are times when things are black and white, right and wrong, but most issues are some shade of gray. People are never going to agree on everything, or even on many things, and that’s just the way it is. But we ought to be careful what we say about those we disagree with, because terrible events in history begin with bad feelings and words. When you spew hatred, whether on social media, in private, or in public, you may be unwittingly helping to sew the seeds of human tragedy and societal failure.We can only hope as time slips into the future that the inequalities we see in our own country and abroad will eventually seem as archaic and unbelievable to all people as some of the things we have witnessed and heard about here in Africa seem to us.
    As we grew closer to our destination we turned off the main highway onto smaller dirt roads. Uganda and Rwanda are two of the most densely populated places in the world, so everywhere you go there are people working, resting, or in transit (mostly on foot and bicycles). And there are tons of children. From this point on it seemed everywhere we went children ran out to greet us, or stood where they were, smiling and waving, and often shouting excitedly, “Muzungu!” That, we learned, is their word for white person. When we arrived at Karungi Camp we were received graciously, and after a glass of fresh passion fruit juice, given a brief rundown. Some time during our orientation, our host informed us that there would be armed guards on the premises at night. After all, the infamously dangerous Congo was only a few kilometers away. He said there was nothing to worry about though, and laughed as he told us they had never had anyone go into a guest’s room and shoot them. Good enough for me. We would stay there for a few days and on one of them be guided into the remaining rainforest, Bwindi Impenetrable National Park, to visit a family of mountain gorillas. That was the main reason we had come to Uganda. 
    There are numerous families of gorillas that have been “habituated,” which means they have been slowly introduced to the presence of humans over the course of a few years, to the point that small groups of people are permitted to  visit them for an hour a day, watching from a distance of only a few meters. Only about 800 mountain gorillas remain in the wild, and of those approximately half are in Uganda. The others are in small sections of Rwanda and the Democratic Republic of the Congo. On our second day in Uganda, we were guided into the rainforest along with four other tourists, a porter each to carry our things (which was totally unnecessary, but hiring one for the day is encouraged as it helps support the local village), and two men armed with machine guns in case we were attacked by any sort of wild animal, or perhaps something far more sinister, men straying across the border from the Congo. The gorillas are always on the move, so several hours before you begin your trek, two trackers go ahead to find them. They begin where they left them the day before, then follow the signs of disturbed vegetation and gorilla droppings until the family is located. As we climbed down the dirt path towards the jungle that morning, it was striking to see the change in the landscape. Looking down the valley we were descending into, one side was dense rainforest, and the other clear cut and terraced for subsistence farming. How and why the human front was halted there, saving what remained of the rainforest for the apes I do not know.  There were a few tiny shacks along the steep hill where families had carved out a living at the edge of the jungle. I will never forget passing by one such dwelling where a man and woman were hoeing the steep, rocky hillside, and realizing the woman had an infant strapped to her back as she worked. I guess there’s no maternity leave in subsistence farming. 
    Humans and mountain gorillas share 98.4% of their DNA. Sitting mere feet away from a massive 27 year old silverback in the prime of his life and looking into his eyes, it was easy to see the connection. While the rest of the family went about their business of chewing on leaves and bark seemingly unconcerned by our presence, the silverback sat on his haunches, arms crossed, and surveyed our group skeptically. Tasked with the protection of his family, he couldn’t be too lenient with this latest group of humans who had come to visit. I wondered what he thought of us. Was he aware of the destructive nature of humans? Does he have even the slightest clue how precarious the position of his species is? Could he possibly understand on some level that we were a necessary annoyance to help ensure their survival? I can only assume it heavily depends on people having enough interest to trek through the jungle to see them. Without that influx of money, the local people would have little incentive to not go into the forest and deplete every resource they could find. But no amount of gold, oil, diamonds, or timber could ever be worth the ecological treasure that is the mountain gorilla. What a magnificent beast he was. It was clear that at any moment, if he so desired, he could get up, take a few strides towards us and rip us in half. He was quite intimidating, but his eyes were thoughtful, and at no time did he threaten us in any way. His three year old son did beat his chest as he ran by, though. Typical young male bravado. Our allotted hour flew by, and before we knew it we had to retreat back out of the jungle and leave the gorillas in peace. It was a remarkable experience to sit in such close proximity to these amazing creatures, one that we will certainly never forget. 
     We spent one more day at Karungi camp, and then it was time for our new friend Allan to drive us back to the airport in Rwanda. We actually wished we had a bit more time to spend there to see some of the other natural wonders on offer and also mingle with the people a bit more. Nowhere I have ever traveled to has stirred quite the same thoughts and emotions in me as these countries did. Of course the terrible events of the 1994 occurred in Rwanda, but aside from the make believe line that is the border, it was difficult to tell the two countries apart. Even knowing that history, and the fact that we stood out so much children could see us coming in a car from several hundred yards away, we felt safe and never threatened in any way while we were there. In fact, almost everyone we came in contact with was very welcoming to us, and we made some friends in our short time there that we will never forget. Still, the knowledge of what happened and the fact that people can turn on each other in such a violent and ruthless manner never strays far from your mind. We had come to Uganda to see gorillas in the wild, but came away with more than we had bargained for in the form of insight and lessons about our own species. 

The Goat

The drums resumed their beat as the goat’s life slipped away through it’s slashed throat. Just then, a flash of lightning was met simultaneously by thunder so violent it seemed to split the afternoon sky, flushing birds from the surrounding trees and sending dogs scampering for a safe hiding place. We had found ourselves just where we had hoped to be, in the heart of Africa, immersed in an authentic cultural experience. Or had we? Things are rarely what they seem to be at first glance.                                                                                                                                

This story begins in Cape Town, South Africa, where Wendy and I spent several days playing tourists. After all, that’s what we are, though neither of us likes to admit it. In our own minds we are rugged adventurers… maybe even explorers. But alas, there we found ourselves, snapping photos of wildlife and breathtaking scenery among throngs of other foreigners from every corner of the globe, and mostly enjoying it. We saw penguins, ostriches, antelope, baboons, an endangered Cape mountain zebra, and even the elusive caracal (a large cat). We ventured to Cape Point, explored some beautiful beaches, and took a cable car to the top of Table Mountain. It was a good start, but we were ready for something more raw. With a few must sees checked off the list, it was time to leave the relative safety and comfort of our quaint little Airbnb cottage, nestled in a quiet suburb at the base of one of the seven natural wonders of the world. 

We had been told by several people while we were there, in a rather matter of fact manner, that Cape Town was “the most beautiful city in the world.” We were also told to pay close attention to our surroundings, and not to go outside after dark so as not to get mugged. This seemed a bit contradictory, although I suppose the likelihood of getting mugged really has nothing to do with the relative beauty of a place. As we steered our rental car out of Cape Town, we decided they must not be factoring the “township” into the city’s beauty rating. The township is a sprawling shanty town that stretches for miles as you reach the outskirts of the city. Actually, as we soon discovered, there are townships throughout South Africa, but Cape Town’s is one of the most egregious examples. I have never seen poverty on such a massive and sickening scale. Thousands upon thousands of tiny shacks, assembled from whatever scraps could be gathered, each one sharing it’s walls with those around it. And just to be clear, black people occupy each and every dwelling. This is what the aftermath of Apartheid looks like more than two decades after its conclusion. You can read about it all you want, but to lay eyes upon it is truly stunning. 

After skirting the township, we headed in a general easterly direction along the Garden Route, where we were quickly flanked by beautiful vineyards, owned by white South Africans, further highlighting a continuing racial, social, and economic divide in the country. After five hours of rolling farmland and distant mountains, we emerged on the Indian Ocean coastline at Mossel Bay. There we enjoyed a quick bite to eat overlooking two fun looking surf breaks (I was wishing I had a board and wetsuit), then headed another hour and a half along the coast to Nature’s Valley. Here we would camp for the night at a backpackers called Wild Spirit. Despite the name, this was not a particularly eventful stop. The grounds did provide a few nice hikes, including a waterfall and swimming hole. There are also a few garden areas, scenic views, and some interesting driftwood architecture. 
From Wild Spirit we headed north and east into what felt like the heart of Africa, though if you looked at a map we had barely ventured from the coast. Green hills quickly gave way to dry, shrubby mountains. As we crawled down the washed out dirt roads in our not so off-road friendly rental vehicle, the mountains receded to become flat desert reminiscent of the American southwest. Although this place had the most inhospitable feeling of any landscape we had passed through so far, we soon began spotting strange wildlife everywhere we looked. Impala were plentiful, ostriches were numerous, giant tortoises crawled slowly here and there, and monkeys scampered across the road and hung from fence posts as we passed by. 

As evening drew near so did our destination, Karoo Rest Farm. Through an electric gate that pens in a myriad of game species (“hunters” pay big money to come shoot them), we made our way to the neighboring cattle farm. We had again climbed high into the hills, though the landscape was no less harsh than the flat desert we left below. Upon finally reaching the farm however, we were greeted by an oasis of tall trees and lush grass surrounding a small farm house. The trees did not grow there naturally, but had been planted by the family four generations earlier, providing relief from the harsh surroundings. We pitched our tent under the trees in a patch of cool, soft grass, and cooked some fresh beef provided by our hosts over the fire. With only a few tiny towns anywhere in the vicinity, there was near zero light pollution, making the night sky incredible to gaze upon. A cool breeze made for a good nights sleep, and the morning brought a breakfast of fresh milk, yogurt, mangos, and homemade bread. After a quick hike through the scorpion infested hills, we retreated back to the shelter of the trees where we had a nice chat with our host. In speaking with him about general safety while traveling through South Africa, he said it helped that I looked like, “a bit of a skolly,” which he explained meant basically a low-life, and that I “didn’t look rich.” I took that as a compliment of course (I’d much prefer to look like a feral wanderer than some clueless tourist), and believe it or not I think he actually meant it as such. Their life on the farm was inspiring. With few people nearby, it seemed self sufficiency was necessary for most daily needs. It appeared to us in our brief time there to be a simple and peaceful existence, yet hard worked for and fulfilling. It was time for us to continue our journey though, and as we pulled away from the security and comfort of the trees and were again exposed to the harsh midday sun, we longed for a greener, more inviting landscape. So we continued east, unsure of what awaited us beyond the horizon. 

Our next stop was another backpackers in an area called Hogsback, where we would again break out the camping gear. Upon arrival we sensed a familiar atmosphere that seems to be common among such places and fits well with the current theme of contradiction. A crowd of mostly young, transient, hippie types tends to gather in these places, a demographic I would expect to be friendly, open, and generally accepting. Instead, we encountered quite a few individuals who my dad would say were “far too groovy.” It seems a lot of people like to dress up and play hippie, but they forgot about the whole peace and love part. Aside from a few wannabes souring the batch, we did meet some very nice people at every stop. Terra Khaya was no different, at least in that regard.

Upon check in, it was brought to our attention that things would be varying somewhat from the norm during our stay. A multi day ceremony was already underway that would make the owner of the camp a traditional healer of the local tribe. That was really all the information anyone could give us. Nobody seemed to really know what was happening, and there was a bit of eye rolling by the volunteers who ran the camp whenever it was mentioned. Apparently a group of people, including Shane, the owner, had gone into “the bush” for a few days for the first part of the ceremony, and would return the next day and continue the ritual for a few more days. It all seemed a bit strange, but we were interested to see how it would play out. The atmosphere, the lack of information, the general feeling of disapproval, and the fact that a guy named Shane, who we would later find out was a gay white man, was becoming a traditional African “healer,” whatever that meant, just didn’t feel very genuine. Halfway through the next day when the group returned and the chanting, dancing, singing, and drinking of alcohol commenced, we started wondering what the hell we were doing in this place. 

While a thunderstorm brewed, we realized the life span of one of the goats in a nearby pen was growing very short. It was clear the goat was going to be sacrificed as part of the ritual. I’ve hunted and fished all my life, and while I certainly never enjoy the death of an animal, it is not foreign to me and I don’t have a problem with it, so long as it’s carried out in a respectful manner with the intention of feeding people. That’s how the world works, we are part of the food chain, and you won’t hear me advocating for being a vegetarian. But this all seemed a bit over the top and, well, barbaric. When the deed was done, and the extremely close electrical charge had silenced the chants, I think everyone who was a bystander and not actively participating felt a bit uneasy. After a short time Wendy and I retreated back to the solitude of our tent and didn’t reemerge until nightfall. 

As we walked through the darkness toward the common area where our dinners were served, rhythmic African voices drifted down the path and guided our way. Upon entering, there before us was  a circle of people singing and dancing in the candle lit room. The vibe was different, something had changed. It was a combination of song, dance, and preaching. Intermittently the collective would quiet enough for someone to speak, though often they would continue the rhythm as though the speach were part of the song. It was a moving display, and the words were even more so. As the night progressed, everyone in attendance was given an opportunity to speak. Quotations of the Bible were prevalent, as it seemed they were practicing, or were at least heavily influenced by, a form of Christianity. They even sang hymns that were familiar to us from home. The most memorable speaker was an African woman, whom we had been told earlier in the day was a prominent religious leader. She seemed to be the head of the proceedings, and preached and sang her message passionately. She was articulate, graceful, and powerful, with a deep, complex, and thoughtful message. The overriding theme was love, acceptance, and a quest for knowledge. As the woman spoke and sang her message, promoting life as the greatest teacher, denouncing all judgement, accepting all religions and faiths, and embracing science while holding fast to sacred rituals and ancestral customs, we were deeply moved and immediately realized our folly. There was nothing barbaric about any of it. We had allowed our own preconceived notions to cause a passing of judgement on something we knew next to nothing about. In a country where we had at times felt uncomfortable and unwelcome, these people accepted us with open arms and made us feel at home in a foreign land. It is hard to describe the feeling and the environment they created with their chants, candles, and singing. Perhaps some rituals have more importance than we realize. 

In one last humorous contradiction, we had to smile when we saw one of the religious elders in tribal garb get up and walk out to answer his cell phone. What a strange place Africa is, caught between the modern world and the oldest tribal cultures of humanity. The Woman seemed to believe these worlds could and should coexist. She spoke of her “normal” life as a scientist in academia, yet here she was, an important healer and leader in her tribe, conducting ancient ceremonies involving animal sacrifices. The whole experience was spiritually moving, thought provoking, and even emotional for both of us. We are grateful to have ended up in just the right place and time to be part of it.  

Runnin' Down a Dream

    Leaving home can prove a difficult task. You get comfortable in your warm, safe little bubble, surrounded by friends and family. The more time goes by, the easier it becomes to just stay put. Youthful exuberance, wanderlust, and need for adventure begin to fade as we settle into mundane routine and allow vices to take their grip. Not that there is anything wrong with home, wherever that may be. There is nothing more important than family and friends, and a sense of belonging is a wonderful and healthy thing. But it’s easy to get complacent and forget there is an entire world (and beyond) full of wonders stretching into the oblivion outside our hometown borders. Many has been the trip I’ve taken that began as a dream far in advance, only to turn into a stressful and anxious experience in the final hours before departure. My wife and parents would argue the latter is mainly due to my unenviable habit of procrastination, which I cannot deny plays a major role. But the other issue is that I know my bubble is about to burst, leaving me exposed to the world beyond… and that is exactly why I find traveling to be essential. Because who wants to live in a fucking bubble? 

    As I type this post from the comforts of our South African Airbnb, my belly is happily digesting a meal of ostrich skewers, green beans, and red wine. Later I may post a photo of an exotic coastline, famous landmark, or even some of Africa’s world renowned megafauna. But that’s just a hand picked snippet of the real story. The truth is, there’s nothing particularly special about my wife and I, or why we get to be on this amazing journey around our beautiful planet. A lot of hard work went into it, and much biding of time. I saved money for years, and Wendy worked hard to free herself from student loan debt. We worked, we saved, we waited, and we didn’t spend our money on needless crap. Well, most of the time at least. We’re here because we decided we wanted to be, and set the necessary steps in motion. There’s been a lot of planning and preparation, a few tearful goodbyes, and a couple grueling days of travel with many more to come. But once the bandaid is ripped off and you step on that plane, the invigoration of the unknown smacks you in the face and revitalizes you with new life. We know the countries to which we will travel, but the things we will see and experience, the people we will meet, and how our lives and perceptions of the world around us will be altered remains a mystery. 

    Our home now lies three days and an ocean behind us.  So far we’ve crossed said ocean and a hemisphere, set foot on a new continent, and enjoyed a beautiful mid summer’s day in Cape Town. We’re adjusting to the culture and learning to drive on the left hand side of the road. After around thirty hours of travel, we crashed hard and slept for fifteen. To this point, we have a few meals and a day at the beach to show for ourselves. We have some excellent adventures planned in the days, weeks, and months ahead, but are happily taking things one day at a time. We hope you join us as our journey continues. 
    

Devon