Day 34-36 Border Crossing/Springbok/Tulbagh & Welcomed by Whales

Day 34-35  Border Crossing/Springbok/Tulbagh

I should say so!!!!

It so closely resembles the crossing from Sonora, Mexico, into Arizona, USA it’s scary.  You have grown accustomed to the stark dryness, to the Third-World roads without shoulders, to the emptiness, to people with little more than the smiles they wear.  And then.  Then you cross an artificial line, in this case it’s an actual physical border, the Orange River, you go through some form-filling and a couple wave-throughs, and boom! 

So very Arizona!

Green bursts out on both sides of your highway, which has just as suddenly improved, guard rails, bold lines, shoulders, rest stops with more than just a waste receptacle, gas stations convenient, people, agriculture, lushness, signage, a sense of organization that didn’t quite exist behind you. 

And, at the same time, a constriction.  A sense that there are more rules to follow on this side.  A loss of the sense of complete freedom somehow.  The trade-off between natural and man-made.  Don’t get me wrong, South Africa is not Manhattan, but is far more developed, “emerging,” than its cousin to the north, Namibia. 

We had forgotten how fantastically stunning the mountains between Springbok and the border were.  And, the town itself, which we had dismissed on the way north as just a tiny crossroads burg, (dorpie, in Afrikaans) with nothing to offer, somehow seems metropolitan.  It has fast foods, we eat at Nando’s, a chicken place.  It has sirens at night.  It has traffic signals (robots). 

We sleep at Annie’s Cottages, a cutesy-over-the-top-with-frills-and-antiques bed and breakfast.  Perfect for our one night’s needs. 

To Tulbagh.

We chose this historic, preserved town for our final sleepover due to its quaintness factor and proximity to two other towns we need to visit before we slide on down to our coast…and our own bed. 

Kerk Straat, Tulbagh

We stay at the Tulbagh Hotel and are given the annex across the main road, which suits us fine, being the only guests in the huge old Cape Dutch house (1823) and having the courtyard to ourselves.  A walk around town is in order and we stretch our legs going all the way down Main St. and then back on the second street, Church St., the one with all the preserved and restored houses.  Many of them have become cafes or self-catering rentals, but they are a glimpse into what the town in its heyday, the early 1800’s, before cars and cell phone shops, may have been. 

Back at the room, we break out the Old Buck gin and take our last toast of the Road Trip in the sunny courtyard.  Wondrously, decadently idyllic.  Drinks downed, I start to notice the buttery late afternoon light and decide to re-trace our walk with the camera this time. 

I snap a few shots, probably the same ones I took last time we were here, 6 or 8 years ago.  But that’s okay, it’s process, not product.  At the end of the street, I run into a group of seven or so laughing, joking teenage boys.  One of them is wearing a sweatshirt with the University of Arizona trademarked logo “A” covering its entire front. 

Hey, do you know about your shirt? I ask him. 

Menhir?  He answers in Afrikaans.  Sir? 

I show him my baseball cap, which conveniently bears the same “A” and explain the coincidence and ask for some photos of the two of us.  The boys are meeting their first American in person, they tell me!  They LOVE American movies.  Are all the girls so beautiful in America?  We like to smoke ganja, do you?

Dinner in the spacious rough-timbered dining room of the hotel, fireplace blazing.   The cold feels pretty refreshing after weeks over 100F (38 C). 

Day 36  Welcomed by Whales

Waking just 4 hours from home, we head out through unbelievable farm country that nestles between mountain ranges.  Our first stop today is in Wellington, home to Jorgensen’s Distillery. 

In an attempt to re-calibrate the Ginometer, we NEED to procure some first quality gin.  Roger is there to greet us and, suddenly, all is well.  He leads us into the barn/lab/factory/storehouse where the magic takes place and explains that he not only can supply us with some of his botanical spirits, but that he has developed three new varieties:  Rooibos (a sipping gin), Hibiscus (blush pink in color), and Jasmine (with the color of wooded Chardonnay).  Naturally, we purchase one of each, cuz you never know when you may be stranded. 

Lunch in wine country

Next destination is Rawsonville, further into agriculture lands, primarily grapes.  We are picking up cases of wine for our buddies, Reinhard and Sandra, for their guesthouse, Crayfish Lodge.  Six cases at the first winery, ten at the next, and an offer we couldn’t refuse from the attractive hostess behind the tasting counter, to give a few of their newest varietals a sip.  Yum.  The new wooded Chenin Blanc is to die for, so, yes, we can squeeze it in, we’ll take a case for ourselves, as well. 

Fellow patrons at lunch-note matching hair and undies!

Now, it’s just a couple more hours to 6, Ingang Straat. 

After making our wine delivery and a few toasts to everyone’s health, we roll down the driveway and into La Casa Wixted.  Welcoming us home were at least nine whales, just below the deck, happy to see us safely back. 

Unload. 

Kick back. 

Aaaaaahhh. 

Days 32-33 Two in the Bush

Days 32-33 Mariental/Bushman Country

We have grown weary.  Our lead dogsled has fallen into a 40-ft. crevasse and was unrecoverable due to my brave companion’s loss of several fingers from the frostbite.  We have run short of penguin spleen and have taken to eating our trusty companions, the sled dogs.  The blizzard has raged for 14 days without abatement.  My companion complains of snow blindness and scurvy.  But, the goal lies many miles ahead beyond the glacier and we must continue pressing on…

Oops.  Wrong journal. 

On the long drives, we have been listening to a fascinating audio book, Alone on the Ice, that recounts the chilling (pun intended) early explorations of Antarctica by crazy, courageous, dedicated Brits, Norwegians, and Aussies in the early 1900’s.  Is there an environment that contrasts more with our present desert bush?  I don’t think so. 

Rehoboth has a strip mall.  On a Sunday morning it seems to be THE place to be.  Mimi braves the Shoprite supermarket and stocks in some more of our road lunch fixin’s-cheese, crackers, chips, apples, and pears. 

The Lapa Lange lies 35 km outside of town down a rugged gravel road, this one a new denomination, the M-29.  Lots of nothingness.  We stop for a pee, with no need to find a bush.  Ain’t nobody comin’ either way. 

And then, as has been the norm, we enter the grand gates and behold, a green oasis with thatched cottages circling a large waterhole, a 360 deck in the center of another pond with koi, and a huge central lodge/restaurant/bar/lounge area, all Africaned-out. 

One of the three tame cheetahs and a Wildcat.  

Two days in a row we have had TV in the room, so we enjoy the Scotland v. USA Rugby match.  Our boys more than hold their own in the first half and lead 13-6.  But, experience wins the day as the Scots come back with uncountable tries in the second half and win the match.  I feel exactly like the young man, Johnny, back in Windhoek and make identical comments like, “We can hold our heads high!” and “We played them dead even for a half!” and “With a bit more training and fitness we can play with anyone in the world!”  Truly, if the sport ever caught on the US, we could dominate and it would be so much fun.  Oh well.  I think the NFL/NBA/MLB conglomerate won’t allow the upstart to get too far.  Shame. 

At dinner we get the history of the place from the manager.  The owner, formerly the owner of the largest Ostrich farm in the world, used to come out here and hunt…and party.  They would set up mattresses under a large thorn tree and make their campfire and pass the whiskey bottle as they told tall tales of the day’s hunt.  We are sitting in the exact spot of that tree, he says.  Piece by piece they have conceived and built this fantastic lodge out of zilch.  At that point, the owner walks in, sweating.  It seems his Land Rover broke down several km back and he had to walk the whole way.  He is not in a sociable mood.  Fine. 

We wake at 4:00 AM for the lunar eclipse.  I had diligently photographed the same phenomenon in Saudi a few years back and decided that that work would stand.  In other words, hell with the setting up, I’m too lazy.  I’ll just take a peek through the binoc’s and go back to bed.  Which we did.  It was cool, though, and the stars out here sparkled more than our daily bottle of sparkling water.

The waterhole by night

“We have several activities to offer you.  Game drives, visit the Bushman village, Bush Walks.”  A walk?  We’ll take it!  After all that sitting in the car, our leg muscles are decreasing as our waistlines are increasing.  The first several places we stayed had hikes that we took each morning, but the second half of the trip has placed us in areas where the wild game surrounds us, or the river’s edge lies just beneath us, and strolling down the path just hasn’t been in the cards. 

Dutifully, we pitch up (I love this expression, along with “rock up,” meaning simply to “roll up” or cruise up or arrive unexpectedly) at 7:55 for our 8:00 AM walk.  “They are on their way.”  OK. 

And then they rock up, our two guides, !kon and !kin,  or something beyond our comprehension and ability to reproduce.  Clicks unlike any click we have heard.   If you think of the “tsk, tsk, tsk,” that you make when you scold a naughty little kid, it’s something like that. The ! is used to represent clicks, for which we have, of course, no letters. 

Bo helping two San guys track a kudu

They are slender fellows.  Springbok hides for loincloths.  Quivers with arrows and a bow strapped over their shoulders, mirroring my own orange backpack with my weapon, the trusty Nikon.  Some beads, a headband made of kudu, and eland hide sandals complete the outfit.  Talk about adaptation to the environment.  But then, they have had 2,000 centuries or so to get it right. 

The younger of the two, !kon, has excellent English skills, which he learned from tourists, and acts as the guide, while his brother-in-law, !kin speaks only San.  The guys refer to themselves as San.  We asked them.  As we walk through the bush, he points out medicinal plants, fresh dung, kudu tracks (“this morning!”), how they make poison for their arrows, and then it gets exciting.

!kin points to some bushes in the distance.  At first I see nothing, and then the herd of white blesboks flickers behind some bush.  He crouches, picks up a pinch of red dust, and lets it fall to test the wind direction.  We head off at a different angle to the herd.  Mimi and I try to keep up and try, in vain, not to make so much damn noise.  Had this been a real hunt, I think we would have been banned and forced to grind maize in the village the rest of our lives.  We DO get pretty close, though, before the herd gets spooked and gallops away to our left in a cloud of dust. 

 

The guys are patient with us and Mimi’s steady flow of excellent questions.  They do still hunt for their food, culling the herds of springbok and kudu.  They can’t afford the school uniforms that are required for their children to attend school.  It would be $30 /child per year.  This obstacle exists all over Africa, and I can’t say that I understand what the big deal is over wearing a uniform.  When we pass a village school and the kids are all in yellow shirts and blue trousers/skirts, it does make for a cute beyond cute scene, but why?  It results in lots of kids being denied schooling, just for lack of money for uniforms.  I guess it’s a holdover from colonial times that an American used to droopy jeans, Nirvana t-shirts, and ball caps can’t quite comprehend. 

!kon asks whether we want to get near to the rhinos for a photo.  Excuse me?  Yes, we can go near to them, and as long as you do not act afraid, they will respect you.  Are you sure, !kon?  Just do not run.  If you run, it will be a problem.  OK, anything for a photo. 

Another test of the wind direction.  We approach from downwind.  I keep trying to psyche myself up, the Cowardly Lion seeking Courage.  We get what feels like touching distance away (the photos will tell the truth).  These are White Rhinos, from the Afrikaans word for wide, which was misinterpreted as white and has nothing to do with their color.  They are the gentler variety.  The Black Rhino being the more ornery. 

Don't try this at home, kids

Summoning all my nerve, I hide behind !kin, yeah right!  I couldn’t hide my pinkie behind this guy!  As we approach ever closer to the beasts.  The one, the male, gives a bit of a snort and a charge.  !kon aims his wee bow and arrow at him and stomps up the dust as he walks TOWARD it!  Mr. Rhino backs off.  I am impressed…and relieved. 

!kon says something like, “Lapa ho!”  Several repeats.  He explains that the rhinos can interpret this and will follow us like puppies to the lodge (lapa) and the watering hole.  I’m doubtful.  These are not, repeat, NOT tamed animals.  They are wild sonofabitches! 

But, for most of the way back to the lodge, like two puppies, the two rhinos follow the four of us humans at a safe distance of about 40 meters.  At some point, they hold back.  We continue on and go to visit the two adult rescue cheetahs in the pen.  There are also three cubs, kittens, they call them here, who roam around free on the grounds.  These three have been raised since birth with humans and the big manager says, “They think of me as their mum.” 

post-Bushwalk chillin'

We ask !kon how often he does this walk.  He says sometimes many times in a day.  He was trained as some kind of a social worker, and used to walk 70 km into the bush in a day and 70 km back the next.  Amazing.  He says that sometimes he guides a whole busload of tourists.  He cracks up, and so does !kin, as he explains with about 36 clicks, that with a group like that, “I look out into the bush and all I see is a long line of white!”  If he knew the word “honky,” I think he would have used it. 

We pose for a few photos at the end of our bush walk.  Mimi offers to buy something for the kids in the village.  “What would they like?”  “Cool drinks.”  Cool drinks are sodas,

Cream Soda choice of the San

Cokes, pops, whatever you call them.  And then, like a scene directly out of “The Gods Must Be Crazy” (which I will have to download back in the USA), !Kon throws back a cold Cream Soda.     

We opt for the evening game drive, our last for this trip.  With us are two very friendly German couples and one more guy, the baker from the lodge, temporary status, Willy, the madman.   Willy is a master baker, no pun intended, and a Rally Race mechanic.  He has done some of these insane Paris-Dakar, Tunisia-Mali, type races.  He speaks halting English, which doesn’t slow his storytelling to us and is quite a character.

The drive is pretty tame by our standards, but as I have said, there are no bad game drives.  We do see some rare black springbok, some rare white blesbok, some very close encounters with the rhinos from earlier in the day, this time in the vehicle, not crouched behind !kon, and the rescue adult cheetahs in their pen.  A great sunset accompanies our drinks.

Our final sundowners on Planet Namibia

In the morning, like rental horses heading for the stable, we point our noses toward the South African border and gallop our way south toward an overnighter in Springbok, on the SA side.   

Day 30-31 Windhoek

Old and new in Windhoek

Day 30-31  Windhoek

Haven’t seen traffic in three weeks, unless you count the one time we had goats walking one way and cattle the other across the highway back outside Divundu.  Not sure that I’m ready for the big city, Windhoek, population 250,000. 

As it turns out, Windhoek is not so much a city as a large town.  There are a few 10-story buildings, banks of course, and a central street, Independence Ave., along which there are shops and cafes.  The city is built on hills, but Rome it’s not.  Nor San Francisco. 

 

View from Hillside Guesthouse

Our pleasant bed and breakfast lies in the north of town, with a view to some fairly large, and modern residences.  Below us is a contemporary oval building housing DSTV, the Comcast of southern Africa.  They are apparently doing a brisk business. 

The young man who receives us turns out to be a passionate rugby player and fan.  The previous night’s Namibia match gives the two of us fodder for plenty of analysis.  He is ecstatic about his team’s performance, having only lost by 58-14.  National pride.  He goes on to tell me that unlike all of the major nations whose players are full-time professionals, the Welwitschias are all amateurs, doctors, lawyers, businessmen whom he sees all the time around time.  This is how rugby used to be.  And, baseball, football, soccer, and basketball, of course, before the megabucks came into play.

Johnny (or Charlie, I couldn’t tell which) recommends Joe’s Beer House for dinner, a short walk away.  This is the place mentioned in the CNN article of a couple weeks ago,

http://edition.cnn.com/2015/09/07/travel/namibia-beer/index.html

and recommended by our Namibian friends, Otto and Gina, back in De Kelders. 

From the street, Joe’s resembles any of the kraals or large lodges we have stayed in with several cone-shaped thatch structures jutting into the sky.  Bomas.  Lapas.  Inside, it is a menagerie of kudu horns, old motorcycles, a fountain in the central area, old signs, an Austin Mini on the roof, the floor of gravel, three or four bars, some inside and some outside seating, and, most remarkably for me, the place is packed with equal numbers of Black and White patrons.  The Black women mostly dressed to kill, the White women, mostly schlumps.   I haven’t really seen a nice racial mix like this anywhere in southern Africa and it feels much better than the segregated scene we usually experience.  (more on this topic at the end of the trip)

The Pork Platter jumps off the menu at us both, as Saudi Pork Deprivation Syndrome (SPDS) still lingers in our metabolism.  When the two platters arrive, not dishes, PLATTERS, fit for Shrek, they are piled high with all the many cuts of pork possible.  At least we had lunch for tomorrow…and the day after. 

We found a walking tour of the city on some website and attempted to trace its path.  Oh well.  It was Saturday morning and the central area was fully occupied with frenetic shoppers and sellers, some of them legit. 

We managed to visit most of the noteworthy sites: the 31 meteorites (pillow-sized) on public display, minus the two that have been stolen, the old German fort, the new monument to independence, that looked as though it came from Iran or Azerbaijan in that grandiose, modernistic kinda way, the Art   This was a must, as our good buddies had been married here, and we wanted to re-enact the ceremony in their honor.  The doors were locked, fortunately, so we had to simply do selfies. 

Christ Church with cute tourists

Independence Monument

Museum, which was excellent and free of charge, the lovely parks and house of Parliament, the many German houses and buildings that stand as monuments to the energy and industry of the former occupants, and, sitting quaintly at the highest point and overlooking the panorama below it in grand fashion, (and incidentally found at the corner of, get this, Fidel Castro St and Robert Mugabe Ave.), the Christus Kirche, Christ Church.

Freedom Statue

Detail from one of several large murals...loved the photographer getting his due!

In much of the Western world, of course, these two characters (Mugabe and Castro, not Christ) are regarded as tyrannical dictators.  Here, as a result of SWAPO and the independence movement against colonial powers and Cuba’s actually sending troops to fight against the South Africans, Fidel and Doctor Bob are seen as the “good guys.” 

As an aside, having, by now, talked to several guys in my age group during our trip, their memories of that war, back in the mid-70s, was the South African equivalent of our Vietnam: drafted, a harsh, awful environmental conditions, fighting against the scourge of Communism, far away from home, and, eventually, defeat with nothing to show for it, but unneeded deaths.  Interesting.   

Chilled back at the guesthouse and watched the South African rugby match against Samoa.  This was more like it, with a healthy victory.  We haven’t had much TV access, so this was a bit of a luxury.  We made a reservation at the best restaurant in town, but as the hours crept by and our motivation diminished, we chose to stay in and dove into that Styrofoam doggie box piled with pork products.  Pass the Kleenex, please; I don’t want to get too much barbecue sauce on these white sheets. 

Breakfast was on the poolside deck, lovely and cool in the morning shade. 

Gas up, drive in circles for 20 minutes through every street of central Windhoek (some of them three times), almost get t-boned by a taxi when the driver (me) looks the wrong way (left instead of right), take photos of Fidel Castro and Robert Mugabe street signs, hit the highway for Mariental, 300 km away.