The Great Escapade...

10/22/03 to 10/26/03: With the memory of our 16-hour marathon etched painfully into our lower backs, Shannon and I spent the next morning relaxing in our first hotel room since Belgium. While we loved the soft mattresses and mosquito nets, the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle towels in the bathroom didn’t exactly remind us the Marriott. Once we were able to walk without limping, we took our trusty chariot in to assess the damage. While we expected to spend the day bandaging up the Beast, we didn’t expect to work our way through five mechanics before we found one that spoke English. Swahili and English are both the national languages in Tanzania, however; historical backlash against colonial rule has made Swahili much more popular. While this makes describing your brake problem a challenge, it makes it pretty fun to casually communicate with the locals. I’m sure I have the accent of a drunk Canadian, but I love approaching the guy hanging outside the Internet Café with a “Mambo vipi?” (What’s up, how are you?) and hearing “Poa…” (I’m cool…) along with getting a look of mild appreciation that I gave enough of a rip about Tanzanian culture to learn how to say hello. Anyway, once we finally found Wilbert, our blue-jumpsuit-savior, we just relaxed with our books as he and his crew of two assistants disassembled our brake system, welded the broken parts back together, welded and re-supported our shattered exhaust line (With a converted clothes hanger), re-greased our steering system, and re-tightened our infamous exhaust manifold. Four hours and SIX DOLLARS later we were on our way. After over 200 kilometers of excellent roads we weren’t exactly ready to stop, but we’d heard good things about Iringa, so we were willing to call it an early day. However, after we checked into our hostel and saw the ½” of raw sewage surrounding the black cracked monster they called a toilet, we started to second guess our decision. All’s well that ends well though, because the friends we met in Iringa will be friends for a lifetime. Peter, Amalia, Christiana, and Beejou (sp?) are all teachers at the Iringa International school, along with roommates (It kind of reminded me of the Pink House crew). I knew things were going to work out great when I found out Peter had spent three years living in San Diego…ACROSS THE STREET FROM ME! What are the odds of that! He even remembers our “White Trash Bash”, one of the last big Pink House blowouts. Even though Peter and I never met in SD, I wish we would have, because we hit it off right away. The coincidences didn’t stop there though. Christiana went to Georgetown at the same time Shannon did and Amalia and Shannon seem to have lived the exact same life. Needless to say, for some reason we were supposed to be Iringa, so we moved onto the couch in the teacher’s plush apartment and stayed for three days! Besides getting to know our new friends and fitting a couple games of basketball in (I hadn’t seen a hoop since Capetown!), we also managed to attend a huge Peace Corps birthday party and the Hindu Diwali Festival of Lights. Diwali is the most widely celebrated Hindu festival of the year, and the part we were honored to participate in included detonation of a small arsenal of bottle rockets, M-80’s and about every other firecracker you can imagine. After the festival we were more than ready to hit the Bottoms Up Tavern, since the ringing in our ears kept us from doing anything productive with our mouths besides drinking. The next day we pulled out of Iringa with genuine sadness. The hospitality, friendship, and connection we found in this small Tanzanian town had warmed our hearts and possibly gave us a place to spend Christmas! Nice!

10/18/03 to 10/21/03: When we arrived in Kasama, we were greeted with a spectacular electric storm and a swarm of termites so thick you could catch 20 with one swipe of the hand. Apparently the first rains spark off a termite mating ritual where they go absolutely crazy for about 15 minutes, swarming around any light they can find, before losing their wings and plummeting to the ground. This is when the locals love to gather them up for the frying pan, but Shannon and I just dusted the termite wings off our cribbage board and continued the game. It’s amazing what you get used to after a while. Our plan after Kasama was to head up to Senga Hill to visit Denise, a Peace Corps friend of ours from Durban, at her clinic off the main road. Unfortunately, Denise was out of town, so we kept dodging potholes all the way to Mpulungu, a small port village on Lake Tanganika. On our way into town we stopped by the Red Cross / Red Crescent office to ask about the five different Cholera warning signs we passed on the way in, but they said their latest Cholera epidemic was under control and the signs were just reminders. Whew! The Red Cross official also informed us that thousands of refugees from the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) and Burundi pass through Mpulungu every year fleeing the endless wars in their homelands. As we gazed across the lake at the DRC (A little close for our comfort), we noticed two refugees huddled on the porch of the Red Cross clinic waiting to be “screened” before heading out to one of the six Zambian refugee camps. With every early possession in a tiny knapsack and hope in their eyes, this mother and child made our adventure look like a walk in the park. Once we checked out the tropical fish exporting operation on the shores of the lake and decided the not to dive with the fish hunters and their two rusty regulators, we pounded down our homemade potato goulash and hit the sack. The next morning we were up early expecting a long, but manageable 400-kilometre drive to Mbeya, Tanzania. We should have known we were in for trying day after we bounced through 30 k’s of two-foot deep potholes only to reach a border post with a locked gate and no one in sight. After wandering around the village with our handy Swahili phrasebook, we managed to find the Customs official’s house and wake him up to stamp our forms. Next stop was the empty Tanzanian border post where we spent 30 minutes waiting for the officials to stumble out of bed, grill us on our immunization cards, and harass us for our “Highly irregular” passport stamps. No worries though, our smiles and dumb looks had us on the road without leaking a single bribe. Now the story gets interesting. According to our immigration buddies, the road to Sumbawanga was “Not bad at all”, but I guess that depends on what you’re used to. For the next three hours we never made it out of 2nd gear. The bumps, trenches, and pools of swamp water snapped our exhaust mounts, pumped up our adrenaline, and somehow killed our tape player. By the time we limped into Sumbawanga it was after 3PM and we still had almost 300 k’s until Mbeya. Since there wasn’t any safe place to stay on the way, we buckled down and prayed for a smooth road. I guess we aren’t all that good at praying because the road was like a pothole mine field. About 30 minutes after we left Sumbawanga we realized that we had changed time zones, meaning that it was actually almost five, and the sun was about to set. It’s almost impossible to explain what it’s like to hit a twelve inch deep pothole in the dark while going over 60 kilometres/hr in a vehicle that was made almost 20 years ago, but I’ll do my best. The sonic-boom sound of the suspension bottoming out is over-shadowed by your jaw slamming shut and two tons of gear flying up and forward. You know you’re really hit a good one when the dust from all your crap flying through the air fills the cab and makes it almost impossible to see. Needless to say, the snails-pace responsiveness of the Beast’s steering system helped us experience these jaw jamming events almost continuously for four hours on the way to the tar road 100 k’s outside of Mbeya. The zombie-like silhouettes of the villagers walking along/in the road, coupled with the overturned semi trucks lining both sides of our path only added to the adventure. By the time we finally reached the tar road, I almost climbed out to kiss the pavement. Unfortunately, I was afraid the Beast would never start moving again, so we kept the pedal to the metal. Our “Mbeya or bust” plan came up about 20 litres short as we ran out of petrol and had to tap into our reserve Jerry cans in the middle of nowhere. It’s amazing how loud the animal noises seem when you’re waiting for your last tank of petrol to drain down a funnel in the absolute darkness on the side of a deserted highway. If anyone had driven by in time to see our deer-in-the-headlights expressions, they probably would have laughed themselves into an accident. Luckily for us, the Beast kept the lions at bay long enough for us refuel, race into Mbeya and fall face first into a moldy hotel pillow. Since this bone-jarring marathon happened to correspond with my 28th birthday, Shannon lulled me to sleep between fits of delirious laughter and the “Happy Birthday” song. I guess my buddy Mike Winstead is right...if life doesn't kill you, it only makes you stronger...

10/14/03 to 10/18/03: The drive through Northern Zambia was green, lush, and beautiful. Unfortunately, it was so beautiful that we missed our turnoff and didn’t realize it until about 100 kilometres later. Ouch! Luckily we kept our spirits high with a combination of Peter Tosh, Bob Marley, Don Carlos, and George Issacs (My buddy Scotty Folck will be excited to hear reggae is about the only music we’ve been able to find at the street markets). Since our little detour threw us off schedule a bit, we crashed out at the first guest house we passed after dark. The Sweetwater Guest House was nothing special, but the fact that the manager was battling a horrible case of Malaria reminded us how important taking our Lariam really is, no matter how psychedelic our dreams get. Once we finished choking down luke-warm oatmeal the next morning, we finally made it to Kundalilla Falls, one of Zambia’s few national monuments. There wasn’t anything too monumental about the 50 meter waterfall and the putrid long drop toilets, but the trip was justified when we met the only two campers in the area, Tim and Julie from Australia. They were nine months into a mega-safari in a Beast very similar to ours. It was great sharing stories and travel tips with them, and we became such good friends by the end of the night that we decided to trade them our Israeli for their Swahili phrasebook. Nice! Once the stitches in Amir’s head had healed and the pain killers had worn off, he decided he would rather head straight to Malawi than continue North with us to Tanzania. Everything worked out great for everyone, and I’m sure we’ll be seeing our super chef again, either in Africa, or when we visit him in Israel! With a couple less kg’s in the back, the Beast made great time to Shiwa Nigandu, an 80+ year old mansion in the absolute middle of nowhere. The house and the grounds were breathtaking, but they were even more impressive when we heard ALL of the building materials were carried over 80 kilometres by hand in the early 1900’s. The founder was Sir Gore-Brown, and old English soldier who fell in love with the estate after fighting a campaign for the British in the Congo. Since Gore-Brown didn’t have any building knowledge except the British Military Construction manual, the walls of his mansion are over 3 feet thick! After our tour of the fort/estate, we powered through the last 20 kilometres to Kapyisha Hot Springs, quite possibly our favourite stop of the month. Nestled along a small river, the Kapyisha Hot Springs bubble up through white sand into a crystal clear pool surrounded by an impenetrable forest of palm trees. The owner, Mark Harvey, is the grandson of Sir Gore-Brown and he had a ton of great stories to share with us. He also had an interesting perspective on international aid, and the future of Zambia. One of the biggest differences between Zambia and several of the other African countries we visited, is the relationship between the white and black citizens. The white Zambians really seem to love Zambia, and are proud of their history and heritage. They have also worked hard to blend into the black society vs. keep themselves totally separate. This could be due to the fact that there are proportionally way fewer white Zambians than in neighbouring countries, or because we just met the right Zambians while we were here. Either way, there seemed to be way less negativity and underlying tension between the races in this small Central African country. That being said, Mark was fairly frustrated with the impact the white colonials and outside world have had on Zambia. By supplying free or severely subsidized grain to help Zambians battle hunger, we cripple the local farmers. How can they make money selling grain when everyone can get it from international donors for free? After this happens enough years in a row, the locals just stop planting and the country becomes more dependant. The same goes to the textile industry. By donating or discounting excess or defective Western brand name clothing, we’ve effectively crushed the local Zambian textile industry. Besides the economic damage, these factors seem to have social consequences as well. Mark felt like by giving away so much for free, we’ve created a sense of entitlement and country of beggars. Mark had just been called into a town council the week prior where the villagers told him he needed to give them a percentage of all his revenues. He was open to the idea (Even though he already employs over 80 locals at the hot springs), but he wanted to know how the money would be used. He could imagine adding a dollar per night to his rates and explaining that the extra money was going to renovate a school or improve the local clinic, but not just to line the pockets of the locals. Their response was, “You’re our ‘Father’, you’re supposed to take care of us”. They didn’t know what they would use the money for, they just wanted the money and they felt like they were entitled to it. I have to admit, we only got one side of the story, but Mark’s main point was that by giving the people of Zambia “Something for nothing”, either out of guilt or out of a desire to contribute, white Zambians and the international community were hurting more than they were helping. So what is the answer? Do we just let people starve? Do we revert to survival of the fittest? Unfortunately, we weren’t able to solve all the world’s problems in one conversation, but we agreed that the best aid is aid that is “Empowering”. Similar to the Habitat for Humanity model where new homeowners help build their own houses with the help of subsidized materials and volunteer labor. There can’t be any free lunch. Mark felt that by giving people handouts, you’re robbing them of their pride and their dignity, and making them even more dependent. Yeah, it seems real simple when you’re sitting around the table talking out your rear end, but one of the themes of the trip so far is that there are no easy answers. Almost every possible solution seems to do great things and horrible things at the same time. I don’t think it’s hopeless, I just think we need to do more listening and less talking. Thanks to conversations like these, our one night stopover had turned into a three day vacation. I guess worse things could happen. Luckily, a group of 14 German travellers helped us move on by showing up in the campsite we’d formerly had to ourselves, and flashing their bloated, naked bodies about five different times while they were changing for the springs. Uggggh. That night, after the albino flashers had killed our appetite, we got a little freaked out by raging forest fire about 100 meters from the Cruiser. The locals have been burning the bush for years to fertilize the soil, but lately they’ve become careless with their fire-stops and half of Zambia is ablaze. The site of the entire horizon lit up like a bright orange sunset in the middle of the night sent us scrambling to tell Mark, but he laughed us out of his office by telling us to calm down, because the fire was on the other side of the river (The river that was about 10 meters from the Cruiser). The Beast survived the night without melting into a pile of scrap metal, and we were on the road the next day before dawn.

10/6/03 to 10/13/03: With the Beast purring like a kitten and our resident Israeli camped out in the back, we pulled out of Livingston en route to Sinazongwe, a small village on Lake Kariba, one of the largest man-made lakes in Africa. Apparently almost 100 Italian laborers died and were buried in the dam during construction, and over 5,000 animals were marooned and rescued in the three years it took for the lake to fill up (Plug that away in your Trivial Pursuit file for later). At night, a large percentage of the locals head out onto the lake with huge spotlights to catch Capenta, a local fish a little bigger than a quarter. They shine the light into the water to attract the fish and then just scoop them into the boat. Since the brightness of the moon ruined the fishing and any hopes of riding along with the Capenta fishermen, we spent the evening playing Hearts and listening to the Hippo's have splashing contests about 20 meters from our campsite. After another night on the lake at Siavonga, we spent the morning walking the Kariba damn before powering through the last 170 k's to Lusaka. In order prepare for Kilamanjaro and to keep the thousands of hours we spend driving and inhaling peanut butter from clogging all my arteries, I've been doing my best to exercise at least once a month. About 5 minutes after I left the campsite entrance at Siavonga to begin my run, I had to turn back. No, not because I'm in that bad of shape, it was the people. It was just before 7AM, and the entire village was alive with activity. Here I am, one of the only white guys in about 200 square kilometers, jogging along to get "In shape", surrounded by hundreds of villagers working fingers to the bone just to stay alive. I ran past men chopping down brush to make shelter, women carrying vegetables stacked two feet high on their heads, and tiny children carrying 20 liter jugs of water and I just couldn't hack it. I may have been over-reacting, but for some reason running through that village for no other reason than just to run seemed like a reckless extravagance. Like I was rubbing their poverty in their faces. Based on their smiles, waves, and laughter, they didn't seem to mind, but part of me felt that if I was going to break a sweat in Siavonga, it should be to build something or to help someone beside myself. Since we didn't speak the same language and I couldn't balance a basket of fruit on my head if you paid me, there wasn't much I could do but head back to the campsite, grab my jump rope, and remind myself to tell you about it. I'll definitely have to keep that experience in mind when my chance to help does come along. In any case, Amir, Shannon, and I arrived in Lusaka just in time to have one of the locals laugh at us because "The Terminator" was about to become California's next governor. I won't get into the specifics of California politics here, but it still amazes me that people in random 3rd world countries like Zambia are up to speed on California politics when over half the people reading this Blog probably couldn't find Zambia on a map. I'm sure there are a million good reasons for this, but it's still an eye opener to be reminded how much everyone knows about me and how little I know about them. Heck, most the travelers we've met have seen more of the US than I have! Fortunately, politics wasn't the only thing on the agenda for Lusaka. Our first stop was the Malawi embassy, where Amir needed to apply for a visa in advance. As we pulled past the armed guard I learned that "Embassy's" for some countries are nothing more than run down three bedroom houses. The Beast must have known we were heading to the mechanic for a checkup after the Embassy, because it died about 200 meters outside the gate. As we sat at the stoplight, surrounded by mini-vans with blaring horns, trying to the engine to come back to life, some guys on the sidewalk ran over to help us out. After pushing the Beast into an adjacent dirt lot we popped the hood and assessed the damage. The plethora of street vendors and schemers offering to "Help" us had made Amir, Shannon, and I suspicious of everyone, so we didn’t let them touch our baby without agreeing on a price. Even then, we were a little sketched out about the “Random Sidewalk Gang” tearing into the Cruiser. Faced with the choice of either accepting their help or towing the Beast across town to the garage, we decided to roll with it. As the Sidewalk Gang tore into our carburetor, I couldn’t watch. Tiny little pieces were flying EVERYWHERE. Luckily for us, our gamble paid off. In about 20 minutes, the Sidewalk Gang completely ripped apart our carburetor, cleaned it, and re-built it for less than seven dollars. Nice! This was just one of reasons why the people of Zambia are our favorite of the trip so far. During the next three days we re-built our rear suspension system, replaced our exhaust manifold (AGAIN), spent about 22 hours in front of the computer, and put two stitches in Amir’s head (After ruling the hostel ping-pong table for over three hours, Amir bent over to pick up the ball and promptly stood up into overhanging window. Just wait until you see the picture!). Once the Beast and Amir were all patched up, we were on the road again, headed for the wilds of Northern Zambia…

9/27/03 to 10/5/03: As we crossed through the customs desk in Botswana for the fourth time in four days, the people behind the counter knew some of our names, and they were still laughing from our petrol expedition a couple days earlier. Oh well, at least we're spreading good cheer. We spent the next four hours driving through the Caprivi Strip Game Reserve, en route to Katima Mujilo, our last stop in Namibia. Originally we had planned to skip Zimbabwe alltogether due to the crazy political situation there (See my July 5th entry), but after talking with a travel agent in Katima, we decided to risk it. The State Department still has a travel warning out on Zimbabwe, but apparently since we were only going into Victoria Falls, everything was supposed to be cool. After reading about the brutal farm murders, teenage militia, and complete economic collapse of Zimbabwe in the papers over the last couple months, my adrenaline was definitely pumping as we pulled up to the Zimbabwe border post. However, other than the 3rd party insurance weasel that tried to shaft us for insurance on top of the insurance we already had, everything went pretty smoothly. There were a couple burnt out cars along the side of the road on the way into Victoria Falls, but other than that, Zimbabwe was just like any other African country we'd been in. As we pulled into the Victoria Falls Backpacker, I knew we were going to love it there. The lush green trees, hidden cabins, free breakfast, and ice cold pool were just a couple of my favorite things at this little hidden paradise. We were pleasantly surprised to find out the best view of Victoria falls is from the Zimbabwe side, not the Zambia side, this time of year, so after one night of rest, we headed for the falls. Even though the water levels were low, the one kilometer long waterfall known as one of the seven natural wonders of the world took our breath away. Every viewpoint was more spectacular than the last one and we couldn't take enough pictures. After soaking up the sensory overload of this immense monument, we headed back into town to see if we could get our hands on some Zim Dollars, the best currency to use if you want good deals. Unfortunately, due to the economic chaos in Zimbabwe, the bank exchange rate is about five times less than the black market rate. Since there was no way we wanted to pay five times too much for anything, we decided to risk the black market. The worst part about buying money on the black market is that the government has set up sting operations to catch tourists and discourage black market currency dealers. Luckily our hostel knew someone who could hook us up, so we wouldn't have to buy off the street corner. Even though we knew the dealer was expecting us, we were a little worried as we walked past the guard, behind the kitchen, past the fridges, and over the DJ booth to our currency contact's head office. The exchange rate was changing daily, but we were able to change money at $4,000 Zim Dollars for each $1 US dollar. We felt like drug dealers as we inched our way out of the back room with our stacks and stacks of $500 dollar bills. Crazy! Once we made it back to the hostel we booked ourselves for a great package deal including bungy jumping, river rafting, and helicoptor touring over the next couple days. The exchange rate made it very cheap and we were fired up that we had decided to risk traveling in this incredibly unique country. The next day we were up early and on our way to the Zambezi river, known as one of the best white water rafting rivers in the world. As we dropped into the first of 21 grade three, four, and five rapids, I knew we were in for the experience of a lifetime. The gorge we rafted through was over 700 feet deep and the river absolutely explodes through the rocks. The ten foot white water completely capsized our boat once and threw everyone from the raft at least twice each. Lunch was excellent, as long as you could keep the wild monkey's from grabbing your leftovers. The second half of the day was just as amazing as the first, but the 700 foot walk out of the canyon on sun burnt legs wasn't exactly the best part of the trip. Our guides made up for it though, with two huge ice chests full of beer and soda waiting for us at the top. Sweet! After crashing out early, we got up just in time to catch our shuttle to helicoptor landing pad. This was my virgin helicoptor ride, so I was pretty fired up when they said the fat kid had to ride in front to balance out the load. The views of the falls from above were even better than on the ground, and the the mist from the falls created a rainbow along the entire valley. Simply amazing. After grabbing a bite to eat, Amir and I headed over to jump off the Victoria Falls bridge and Shannon headed back down into the canyon to ride jet boats up the rapids. The 111 meter Vic Falls bungy was a shorter fall than Bloukrans, but you got a lot closer to the water, so I was as fired up as ever as I bounced up and down at the end of their bulked up rubber band. Once the three of us had our adrenaline fixes for the month, we gave the Beast a good bath and bid farewell to our hostel roommates. It still amazes me how easy it is while traveling to meet people, make friends, and have incredible conversations with absolute strangers. Our last night in Vic Falls we met Elaine, a former Irish Architect on year long trip around the world. Her perspective and the big questions she was asking about her life helped me see that a large portion of our generation really is going through what Jack Johnson would call a “Quarter Life Crisis”. In fact, Elaine had so much in common with Shannon and I that I gave her my copy of Po Bronson’s “What should I do with my life” to help her in her quest for an answer. As Mr. Bronson would say, “Asking the question aspires to end the conflict between who you are and what you do. Answering the question is the only way to protect yourself from being lathed into someone you’re not.” I hope Elaine enjoys the book as much as we did. Anyway, after we picked up a couple pictures from our Zambezi rafting experience, we turned the Cruiser towards Zambia and kept our fingers crossed that they wouldn’t fine us for our expired “Carbon Tax” certificate. Luckily, the Victoria Falls customs office was way more user friendly than the one on the border with Botswana, so we were on our way in no time. We’re learning the best strategy for crossing borders is to bring our backpacks full of patience, plaster on a couple big smiles, and don’t ask too many questions or volunteer too much information. So far, so good. Our first couple days in Livingston were spent playing and posing with enormous crocodiles, holding tiny snakes, and trying to figure out our travel plans for Zambia and beyond. All we’ve learned so far is that we better prepare our bums for a couple thousand kilometers of pothole driving. I’m sure the Beast is going to love it…

9/24/03 to 9/26/03: Once our rock art tour was over, we hopped back in the Beast and headed back up to the Okavango ferry, the only way to get to the East side of the river without driving back into Namibia. Unfortunately, once we got near the ferry, we learned that we didn't have enough petrol to get all the way down to Seronga, our destination for the Mokoro trip. This wouldn't have been that big of a deal if they weren't completely out of petrol in Shakawe, the only medium sized town within 250 kilometers of where we were sitting. The gas pump attendants said they would have petrol "Tomorrow", but apparently they had been saying that for three days now. Our last option was to cross back through customs into Namibia, grab petrol there, and then cross back through customs again to catch the ferry. Yuck! Since we didn't want to be stuck waiting for gas for a week, we headed for the customs desk. Everything probably would have worked out fine except for the the fact that one of the razor sharp rocks in the road finally won the battle with our heavy duty off road tires. Faced with our first flat tire of the trip, we pulled out or trusty High Lift jack and swapped out the tire in no time. Or should I say, Amir swapped the tire out in no time. I tell ya, that guy is good! When we made it to the gas station at Divundu, we learned that there really isn't a mechanic's shop that fixes tires anywhere within about 200 kilometers, but Swapeta, one of the locals, sometimes works on cars over by the river. When we pulled up to the twelve locals surrounded by about eight half disassembled vehicles in a field next to the river, we figured we were in the right place. They laughed at us and our vehicle for a while, but they had the tools to take apart our wheel to get the tube out, so we weren't complaining. By the time we were back on our original wheels, the sun was going down, so we scrapped our ferry plans, and pulled into Ngepi Camp, one our favorite campsites to date. It's located at the end of a two mile sand 4WD road, right on the Okavango river. The bar was packed with other overlanders, and the river was packed with hippos feeding on the vegetation at night. Ngepi was a great place to rest, and one of the last places we could fill our water bottles out of the tap. The next morning, once we finished downing a couple peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, we headed back across the border and finally caught the ferry we'd been chasing for two days. We were a little wary driving the Beast onto a floating tin can, but everything turned out great and we were quickly on our way. The road to Seronga was almost all deep sand, but when we pulled into the Okavango Poler's trust, the driving was worth it. The Trust was set up by locals to help support the local community with tourist dollars. All of the profits are reinvested in the community, and the operation supports almost 100 villagers. The Mokoro's are made out of fiberglass instead of wood to preserve the few remaining large trees in the Delta, and just about everything we did with the Trust was extremely well run. After spending a night in the main campground, we met Alex, our local guide who would be keeping us out of trouble on the Delta. With all our gear and three passengers, Alex hired another "Poler" and we set out for the islands of the Delta. Since the water is too shallow for any gas powered boats, all we could hear was the quiet ripple of our guide's poles slipping through the reeds and swamp water. Once we set up a camp and rested for a while, we went on a game WALK, and came across a couple baboons and what was left of dead elephant. There's definitely something different about walking around the animals as compared to driving around them. You really start to realize how slow humans really are. After our first walk we jumped in the Mokoro's to go swimming and jumped out of the boats for a dip about 100 feet from where we had surprised a crocodile in the weeds. Alex said it was cool though, so we jumped right in. Smart, very smart. That night, after enjoying an incredible sunset from the Mokoro's, we learned that camping in the bush is a whole lot louder than camping in a protected campsite. The symphony of grunts, growls, and screetches kept us up for a while, but not much can stay between us and sleep. The next morning we went on a real game walk, and the amimals were all around us. One of our guides was carrying a machete, but that wouldn't do that much to a full sized elephant. We learned quickly enough that elephants are the biggest things to be afraid of in the bush. The antelope, baboons, and zebras all ran away from us, but most of the elephants kept walking towards us. Our hearts were racing, but Alex managed to get us safely back to the Mokoro's and back to the Beast in time to catch the ferry back across the river. One of the great things about camping with Alex was getting the chance just to talk about his life. Unfortunately his family could only pay for his schooling through 3rd grade, but he's hoping to use some of his earnings from the Trust to further his education. Even though he had lived most of his life with close to nothing, Alex's happiness and enthusiasm was infectious. He was convinced that anything was possible, and his attitude had me convinced that he was right...

9/19/03 to 9/23/03: Once we left North Western Namibia, we were faced with one of the longest stretches of travel of the trip so far. Our next main attraction was the Okavango Delta in Northern Botswana, but it was going to take us three days and two nights to get there. Things would be a little different if the Beast went faster than 50 miles per hour (In neutral, going downhill), but I guess we all need to learn how to slow down and enjoy the ride every once in a while. Our first stop was good ol' Tsumeb, the town full of a whole lot of nothing. The hostel left a lot to be desired, considering the water didn't really work and the receptionist was too busy watching adult movies to help us check in. The one bright spot was the refreshing American family we bumped into there. The mother and father had pulled their four children out of school, set up a home schooling program, and hit the road in South America, Africa, and Asia for FIVE MONTHS! The youngest kid was in Junior High, so everyone could at least carry their own bags, but I was blown away by how cool their trip was. I could easily see myself as a parent, convincing myself a trip like that wasn't possible, but here they were, making it happen. The father had spent four years of his life traveling with "Up With People", and he was a blast to talk with. I just kept telling the kids how lucky they were to be on a trip like this when the money wasn't flooding out of their own bank accounts! I have a strange feeling I might be inclined to take my future family on a trip just like theirs. I'm getting a little ahead of myself though. I better start with the whole finding a wife thing first. Anyway, after another comfy night in the back of the Beast, we stopped by the "Biggest Meteorite In the World" en route to Roy's Rest Camp outside of Grootfontein. The Meteorite turned out to be a nine foot by three foot hunk of iron, but it was cool to see it sitting in a huge hole in the middle of the desert. Once we finished enjoying Roy's ice cold pool and playing with his tame Kudu, we hit the road and spent the rest of the day dodging cows, donkeys, goats, and people all the way to Rundu. The pool in Rundu was pretty nice too, but we were getting antsy to get to Botswana, so we headed out early the next day to hit our sixth country of the trip. The Okavango river flows into Botswana from Angola and Namibia and it's enormous. About 200 kilometers South of the Namibian border the river splits into the Okavango Delta, an intricate network of canals, wetlands, and game filled islands. After driving about 100 kilometers down the West side of the river, we found out that we were on the wrong side if we wanted the best deal on a Mokoro trip. Mokoro's are huge dugout canoes that the locals use to navigate the shallow waters of the Delta. We were dead set on taking Mokoro's out to one of the game islands to camp for a night, but it was too late to get to the other side of the river, so we drove out to the Tsidilio Hills, a hidden park known for it's extensive rock art. After spending the night surrounded by mosquitos and yellow jackets in an abandoned campground, we hired a local guide to show us the rock paintings. At first I wasn't too fired up on the idea, but once I saw the cave paintings, etched and rubbed into the rock thousands of years ago by primitive artists using a fat, blood, and mud mixture, my attitude changed. It was pretty nuts to stand where our ancestors stood thousands of years ago, staring at rocks that they rubbed and worked with their own callous covered fingers. I have trouble getting the camp stove started, and these guys had enough time to live off the land and paint in their free time. There's nothing like eating a little humble pie in the middle of no where...

9/18/03 to 9/19/03: With the feet-loving Cheetah's behind us, we set out on the longest day of 4WD roads we had experienced yet. The roads are part of the reason why Epupa is such a well kept secret, and after 4 hours of constant bouncing part of me wished it would have stayed a secret. However, as soon as I walked up to the falls, all my doubts disappeared. Epupa falls consists of about 50 different waterfalls right on the Angolan border. Most of the water plummets through huge cracks in the rock, with water rushing past on three different sides of each crevice. The pictures are incredible, so make sure to check them out when you get the link. The current is pretty strong too, as at least two dead tourists have found out the hard way over the last couple years. There was something a little strange about staring across the river at Angola after reading about three sets of overlanding tourists like us who have disappeared over there in the last couple months. It's amazing how comfortable and complacent you can become at safety vigilance after a long spell of minimal danger. Don't worry Mom, we're still on our toes. Right before we went on our first real hike around the falls, I managed to crack the LCD screen on my camera, so I wasn't smiling much in the pictures we took that day. Oh well, Best Buy's warranty department will vouch that I've never been that good at camera care. On our way out to the falls we noticed a man teaching a group of young children the alphabet under a huge tree down by the water. Since the villages in the area are so remote, the teachers travel to the kids to make sure they're getting a basic education. At least the kids that can pay for it. As we passed back by the group of children we got surrounded by kids begging for candy, money, pens, paper, and just about anything else they could think of. It's funny because those are exactly the things that some guide books recommend giving, and what the locals explicitly tell us not to give. It's a tough call, because you could totally make their day, but you would create a culture of beggars and ruin the experience for the next group of travelers. There are strong arguments on both sides of the issue, but arguments don't make it any easier to say no to children. As we pulled out of Epupa falls, we started to focus on finding a Himba village to sleep in for the night. Part of the draw of North Western Namibia was the abundance of authentic Himba villages on the road to Epupa. Shannon was very interested in staying in a village, and it sounded good and Amir and I too. When we spotted a good sized village off the main road, Shannon walked over and started negotiating with the oldest woman in the village. Two bags of flour, one bag of coffee, and a couple pieces of candy later, we had ourselves a place to stay. Since no one in the village has a vehicle or anything you could buy in a store, we drove through the brush for a couple hundred feet and set up camp. The Himba people are incredibly beautiful, and they are traditionally semi-nomadic herder/hunter gatherers. They cover their skin, hair, and clothing with ocre mixed with mud to protect their bodies from the scorching sun. The mud also serves to condition and provide nutrients for their skin, which may explain the flawless beauty of the women we met. The women and children were all very curious about us, and we did our best to communicate using the 15 Himba words in the back of our Lonely Planet. When the chief rode in on his donkey with the cattle after dark, he came over to try to negotiate for more items from us in trade. First he wanted our chairs, then our sugar, then our clothes, and then he finally gave up and headed back to his mud and stick lean-to. We had a hard time saying no to the requests of the Himba, since we were carrying more supplies in the back of the Cruiser than they had in their entire village. Shannon had negotiated a more than fair deal according to the locals we had spoken with earlier, so we stuck by our guns and eventually they stopped asking for things and just hung out with us. The pictures in our Lonely Planet and the pictures I brought from Ukiah and California were a big hit, and the children just seemed happy to play with us. As we pulled out of the village at dawn, our new friends bid us farewell, and I couldn't help but think about how much happier these people were compared to their more "Civilized" compatriots in the townships. They might sleep with cattle and cover their bodies with mud, but they are well fed, take great care of their children, and are proud of their heritage. We were all very thankful that they let a couple of Western squatters hang out with them for a night...

9/16/03 to 9/17/03: Thanks to the sobering experience of the Kachatura township, our drive out of Windhoek was pretty quiet. We had spent about an hour re-packing the Beast to make room for a third passenger, so by the time we were done, Amir was sitting pretty is "Suite" of stacked mattresses and bundled sleeping bags. After spending the last three months getting to know each other and finding our travel groove, Shannon and I were a little wary about adding a new person to the mix. The phrase "Two's company, three's a crowd" kept running through our heads, but for some reason we both knew that everything happens for a reason and for some reason we were supposed to be traveling with Amir for a while. Amir Sessler is a very interesting and entertaining character. His parents were both born in Switzerland, but he grew up in a Kibbutz in Israel. A Kibbutz is similar to a commune in the States, but it's not exactly the same. All cars, cash, and resources are shared equally in the Kibbutz, and there are several small thriving businesses generating cash for the members right on the premises. Amir makes it sound great, so I'm sure we'll be stopping by Israel to check it out sometime in the next couple years. If we were a little unsure about extra passengers at first, all our doubts dissapeared as soon as we tasted some of Amir's cooking. His bag of spices is almost as big as our ice chest and his camp stove skills are pretty impressive. Thanks to necessity and a little Israeli persuasion, I've been eating onions and garlic with almost every meal. Mmmmmm, the Cruiser sure smells good in the morning... Amir is also an expert at making "Mud Coffee", so we've become very used to coffee and cookies after every meal. Nice! He's also an excellent mechanic, and given the temperment of the Beast, I think those skills will come in more useful than I'd like to admit. To top it off, Amir it teaching us conversational Hebrew, so we'll be able to hang with the locals once we make it the Middle East. During our pre-departure planning Amir shared some of the great stories he'd heard about Epupa Falls, a little known campground on the Angolan border in North Western Namibia. Shannon and I were planning to head straight for Botswana, but we didn't want to lose our streak of last minute plan changes, so turned the Cruiser north from Windhoek and hit the gas pedal. Well, I guess its more like we leaned gently on the gas pedal and thought very positive thoughts. So far, so good. Since there was no way we could drive the 800+ kilometers to Epupa falls in one afternoon, we pulled off at the first place we found after dark, the Kamanjab Cheetah Farm. We stumbled up to the campsite bar just in time to hear the owner's speech on the history of the farm. Apparently, even though Cheetah's are endangered, they aren't exactly given special treatment in Namibia. One Cheetah can kill over 30 cows and goats in less than a month, and the farmers aren't supposed to touch them. Fat chance. It reminded me of some of the Mountain Lion problems in Northern California, but the Cheetah Farm had an interesting solution. They provided a safe haven for Cheetah's and they were working to expand their habitat to accomodate even more. One of the best parts about the farm were the tame Cheetah's that had been orphaned and raised by the owners. They were like two foot high house cats with huge claws and teeth. Everything was all well and good until one of them decided it wanted to eat my sandals. The farm owners were able to pry the cat's jaws off my foot, but I left wondering what "Tame" means in Africa...

9/16/03: Effrin and Tujumoa both live in the Kachatura township, so they made excellent guides. Effrin also lived through South Africa's occupation of Namibia in the 80's and early 90's, so he had plenty of interesting stories to share. We started the day by checking out President Sam Nujoma's house in one of Windhoek's shady neighborhoods before driving to the top of the biggest hill in town to start Effrin's history lesson. While Effrin thinks Mr. Nujoma should be spending his money on schools and hospitals instead of a multi-million dollar new presidential palace, Effrin is still loyal to his first democratically elected leader, and wouldn't mind if the constitution was amended to allow Mr. Nujoma to stay in power for a 4th term. The rest of world isn't too excited about this possibility and the comparisons to Mugabe's reign of terror in Zimbabwe are already popping up in the local papers. Some think tourism may be non-existent in Namibia in the near future if things don't stabilize soon. Anyway, once we reached the top of the hill, Effrin pointed out all of the areas where black people lived before Aparteid. He then explained in detail how the South African military forced the native Namibians out of their homes and into the new Kachatura township. It was telling to learn that "Kachatura" means "Place no one wants". During Aparteid, all blacks had to carry "Passes" with them at all times indicating that they were allowed to be outside of the townships. The police could stop them for any reason, ask for their pass, and arrest them if they were not "Authorized" to be in town for work. Thanks to this forced segregation and suppression, all of the houses we could see from our hilltop perch were filled with white families and a few black families that had used their goverment jobs to break out of the township. Since there are only 1.8 million people living in Namibia, tax revenue is scarce, and all students have to pay to attend primary, middle, and high school. Several poverty stricken parents have to make the tough choice between feeding their family or educating them. As we left the mountain and pulled into the township, we noticed that the native tribe designation was written right on the outside of each house. "H" for "Herero" and so on. Tribes were grouped in different neighborhoods to try to keep language and ethnic groups together, but other than the letters on the wall, every one room block house looked the same. The corrogated sheet metal roofs are held down with rocks and the outdoor toilets regularly spilled out onto the street. After cruising through the older, more established sections of the township, we stopped by the market to taste the dried worms, dried berries, and open-air BBQ. We found it a little tough to choke down our smoked liver when we were surrounded by the freshly severed heads and feet of the cattle that were now on the grill. If we thought the older part of the township was a little sketchy, "Shantytown" would take poverty to a whole new level. Apparently when Namibia won it's independence in the early 90's, thousands of rural Namibians who had been kept out by the "Pass Laws" flooded the townships of Windhoek. The only problem is, there was no money and no work. Since the limited government housing was already full, the new immigrants built shelters using anything they could find. Over the past ten years Shantytown hasn't stopped growing. The road, power, and water systems can't keep up and illiterate children are forced to play in their own filth, watching their friends who can afford an education walking past them to the dilapidated elementary school. As I sat on the hillside surrounded by metal and wood shacks as far as I could see, I couldn't help but wonder how it would ever get better. How will these children ever learn to read? If they are illiterate, how will they ever find work? If they can't find work, how will they live? Crime? Prostitution? Manual labor? Most of those career choices are already overflowing with candidates in Namibia. At the beginning of our trip, during one of our first nights in Durban, we attended a human rights film festival with Jason, an avid traveler from New Mexico. Jason had seen some of the most poverty stricken third world countries in the world, and he asked us what we thought the biggest problem in the world was. What do you think it is? We threw out a couple options. War? Violence? Poverty? Hunger? Jason summed it up in one word. Overpopulation. He argued that all of the world's problems stemmed from the fact that we are outgrowing what the earth can support. He mentioned that when 15 million people were threatened with starvation in Ethiopia, the world sent food. Millions of lives were saved, but now Ethiopia has 30 million people threatened with starvation. Did sending food help the problem or hurt it? This was pretty brutal reasoning, so we asked him what could be done to start working towards a solution. He said matter of factly, "Empower the women". He argued that if we took control of the world away from the men, the women would figure everything out. No more war. No more poverty. No more power struggles. No more hunger. At the time it seemed a little out there, but as I sat on that hill staring out at thousands of people with the cards stacked against them, I couldn't help but wonder if he had it all figured out...

9/10/03 to 9/14/03: Once we finished mortgaging our unborn children to pay for our new rear brakes, Shannon and I packed up and headed for Etosha, Namibia's flagship game park. Estosha is known as one of the best game parks in Africa, and the dry weather insured that the animals would be easy to find right by the water holes. After three nights and four days in the park, we both adimantly agreed that Etosha lived up to its reputation. From elephants and lions in the day, to rhinos and hyenas at night, we got about all the game viewing we could handle. The fold-down windsheild and multiple roof hatches came in very handy, although we could have done without picking bugs out of our teeth every night. The only tragedy took place during our first night, as we were camped out the watering hole watching a couple elephants down hundreds of gallons of water. In the middle of a cribbage game by flashlight, Shannon got up to grab the queen of spades that had dropped out of her hand and knocked her camera onto the concrete. At first it seemed fine, but after closer inspection Shannon notices a couple chips in the viewfinder. Since Shannon and I both share a passion for photography, this was a horrible, no good, very bad bump in road. Since they weren't exactly selling Minolta camera parts in the gift shop, Shannon decided to throw a cheap roll of film in to see if the chips affected the pictures. Our original plan was to get the camera checked out in Tsumeb, on the way to Botswana, but when we got to Tsumeb and found out their camera shop doubled as a jewlery store, we just kept on driving back to Windhoek. Ouch. After bluffing our way past our first government official soliciting bribes, we rolled up to our new home at the Cardboard Box. Amir was pretty excited to see us, since a four hour cab ride to Tsumeb would have put quite the dent in his pocketbook. Luckily Shannon's test roll came back fine, so we knew the viewfinder chips were cool and we were ready to hit the road again. However, since we drove all the way back to Windhoek, we decided to book a "Township Tour" to experience the legacy of Aparteid first hand. We thought we had been humbled by our experiences to date, but nothing could have prepared us for Kachatura...

9/8/03 to 9/9/03: About two hours into our trek to Windhoek with our bandaged brake system, we came to the one and only mountain pass we would have to traverse along the way. As usual, we hadn't seen any other cars or people for over an hour, so we had our fingers permanently crossed and our eyes glued to the horizon. As we approached the final +/- 20 degree grade, I felt the engine sputter and give out. Interesting. As I kept my foot slammed against the rapidly de-pressurizing brake pedal, Shannon jumped out and wedged a couple boulders behind the tires to keep us from rolling backwards to oblivion. After trying about four unsuccessful fixes, I dug into our huge bin of spare parts and changed out the fuel filter. This was about the last thing we could have done before starting to walk to who-knows-where for help. Thankfully, our twelve trips to the auto parts store paid off, and the new fuel filter had us going in no time. Since it was getting pretty late, we decided to stop at a campground "Spa" in Rehobooth to crash for the night. Little did we know that the locals had converted the campground and the adjacent bungaloo's into an ad-hoc apartment complex. They apparently hadn't had any tourists in months, so they gave us a funny look and told us they no longer allowed camping on the premises. However, thanks to a couple big, dumb, American smiles and some receptionist pity, we were able to park and sleep inside the spa-turned community housing project. After the chaos of the last few weeks, Shannon and I were pretty excited to finally reach Namibia's capital at Windhoek. Our first stop was Chameleon backpackers, but after we stepped over eight diseased dogs on the way in, found out their pool was full of swamp water, and Shannon re-sprained her ankle on the way out, we decided to try another hostel. Thank god we did! The Cardboard Box, our home for the next couple days, was perfect. The place was packed with travelers from almost every continent, not to mention some local college students that preferred the hostel atmosphere to cramped dorm quarters. Some of the locals from Windhoek even hung out at the resturaunt by the pool, so we were able to hear all about Namibia's turbulent history. Some noteable guests we bumped into included Andy, a British student trying to determine if Namibia's sustainable tourism programs can work in Argentina, Shamir, a Swiss travler who can't visit his father in Algeria without getting roped into mandatory military service, Christine, a researcher for the Jane Goodall foundation, researching wildlife projects in Botwana, and Amir, a former member of the Israeli Army, traveling through Africa on a trip just like ours. What's really interesting about Amir's story is that he met Nirit, a great girl who also completed her compulsary military service in Israel, and they had been traveling together for a couple weeks before Nirit accidentily totaled Amir's 4x4 Toyota on the way to Windhoek. They were both pretty shaken up, considering Joe, the American cyclist who had been riding in the back, was still in the hospital. Amir and Nirit's story was a wake up call for Shannon and I regarding the dangers of dirt road driving in Africa. When we learned that Nirit would be flying back to Israel in a couple days, we let Amir know that he was more than welcome to jump in with us if he was able to sell what was left of his Toyota in time. Of course before we could take on any passengers, we had to get our infamous brake system repaired. Since brake fluid was still oozing out all over the inside of our rear passenger side tire, we were extremely thankful that we made it to the Windhoek Clutch and Brake shop in one piece. The best part of the day was when the mechanic pulled the brake drum off our problem wheel and about eight broken pieces came clanging out onto the pavement. All our trusty mechanic could do was hold his head and mutter "Mmmmmmmm this is going to expensive...very expensive..." Nice.