65 cL of Freedom

(The following post was originally written on the 16th of January, 2009)

Brothers, sisters, friends and countrymen: I welcome you back to the recently allusive yet everlasting Tales of Selb, and to the New Year. I have been back at site for about a week now and I must say we’ve come leaps and bounds since this time last year. We’ve got Zain cellular services (formerly Cel Tel) up and running, we’ve got electricity in the house, and I’ve even seen road crews out working on RN 13, albeit sporadic. I've got a laptop with droves of DVDs, lots of cheese whiz, and not one, not two, but *three* bottles of Bushmill's Irish whiskey squirreled away for a rainy month. You know work’s not goin’ too bad either? I finally got that AIDS prevention soccer league funds request that I been workin’ on. I should hear back soon. So, yeah; sittin’ pretty in Isoanala for the New Year.

Last November I headed up to Tana to train the new health stage in-country. It was a positive experience for everyone, I think. Nothin’ like a group of wide-eyed newbies to break in; they sounded just like we did last year, I tell ya; brought me back, it did. Then in December we had another family visit. This was going to be a big one… My mother and Dave were due to meet me in Johannesburg. They had never been to Africa. I knew they could handle it though. They’re tough cookies. Dave came up on the mean streets of northeast Minneapolis in the ‘50’s. Mom is from Iowa, but I knew that Dave and I could look after her. I was looking forward to a change of scenery myself. Fifteen months I spent in this country, and I shouldn’t look forward to this? At the very least a change in beer selection! Don’t get me wrong, I love the 65 centiliter bottles of Three Horses Lager here, but a guy needs to stir it up sometimes, no?

On December 18th, I stepped onto an airplane that would take me to see my family, whom I had not laid eyes upon for a year and a half. The plane landed at 3:30 p.m. in Johannesburg. As I entered the icy-cold airport from the stifling African sun, I was blown away by the advanced nature of the structure I was in. I could have been in the new airport of any capital city in America. Was it really Africa? As I approached customs, walking like a zombie, spinning in circles and marveling at my surroundings I backed into a gentleman standing in the customs line.

“Excuse me, sir,” I said as I turned around. To my astonishment, the man I had bumped into was none other than Dave Reavis, accompanied by my dearest mother, fresh in from D.C. We all embraced and attempted to comprehend what was happening. As we approached customs, I was called up to a middle-aged, clean-cut gentleman behind a desk.

“Howzit,” he mumbled without looking and grasping for my passport.

“Good?” I said, unsure of his question.

“Yeah, kuntrezidin,” he muttered.

"Oh, um… American?” I tried.

“Naw, naw, naw, naw, man. Kuntrezidin,” he countered, growing fidgety.

“Huh?”

“What country ya reside in!” he exclaimed. Gotta love that accent!

At our hotel that evening, we caught up; traded war stories. They got me up to speed on family business and I dished out a couple of my better Dahalo stories for them. After not too long they complained of jetlag, understandably so. After they had turned in, I decided to stay at the hotel bar and watch soccer for a bit. I noticed the only other bar patron was a man who periodically approached the bar and refilled his Walker Red. We got to talking and it just so happened that he was in the development business as well. An interesting and well-mannered fellow of Pakistani descent, he worked with UNICEF and was coming from Egypt to South Africa for some work-related business. He asked me for my story. As I explained who I was and what I was doing, I noticed a glimmer in his eyes. Especially as I explained how I once worked in a cubicle for Citigroup in downtown Manhattan, and had decided that wasn’t going to be my direction, exactly.

“You know I made a similar decision when I was about your age. This is more interesting, don’t you think?” he inquired. Yes, sir. Yes I do.

The next day we arrived at our safari lodge in Kruger National Park. The vast majority of the staff hailed from the Shangan tribe, but the Xhosa people were spoken for by some as well. The lodge was truly fit for a king. They had California-king size beds with air conditioning that literally had a notch on the dial for “igloo-mode.” On top of it all, the mini-bar was just dirt cheap! Castle, Heineken, Amstel, J&B airplane bottles, you name it; all 15 rand! The equivalent of about $1.50! Well, I was just astounded. Some of the nicest hotels in Madland do not have a mini-bar, and the ones that do aren’t that cheap… The AC was necessary, however, as midday temperatures tended to top off around 115-120. Thus, it should come as no surprise that the animals didn’t much go out during the day. So, if we wanted to see animals on this animal safari, we would have to follow their schedule. A prerequisite we didn’t mind none too much; who would want to face that heat? The animals were right! Put it to a vote; I’ll vote for it. So the guardian gentleman would softly knock on the door of my lodge at 5 a.m. and we would be off by 5:30, and back by 9 a.m. Then breakfast and lunch followed by a nap, then the evening drive from 4 to 8 p.m. Our driver, Fany, and tracker, Renius, were just a couple of class acts and couldn’t have been more courteous gentlemen.

So I know what you’re asking yourself, and the answer is: yes. We saw all the big five *except* the allusive cheetah. They’re a slippery bunch; the substitute teacher of the jungle world. Ask a real live tracker, man, he’ll tell you the same. But man, oh man…did we see a lot. Tons of elephants, giraffes, zebras, hippos, and impala. Buzzards, Egyptian cobras, of course the Malibu Stork, water buffalo, lions, black-backed jackals, and on our last day we saw a rhino. One evening we saw one single buffalo stave off *three* giant, male, freakin’ full grown lions! We learned the lions had been stalking the buffalo the previous few evenings. The buffalo was facing death; he knew it. But God bless him, he started charging the lions in a last-ditch bluff attempt knowing full well that if he didn’t, it could mean his own life. The lions seemed mildly irritated by the disturbance, and were acting more like it was too hot that evening to go ahead and kill the buffalo, than like they were genuinely intimidated in any sense of the word. You’ve gotta hand it to that buffalo though… What balls! God loves tryers.

The next afternoon mother and I were walking towards the mess hall for some lunch. We were discussing something ridiculously mundane, especially given the nature of the events that were about to take place. About halfway to the mess hall, I was muttering, more to the ground than to mother, something along the lines of, “You know, I like Russ Feingold. I don’t care what anyone else says…” when someone hissed a borderline-rude “shush” at us from afar. The two of us looked up and saw another guest silently making the “silence” motion, then pointing hurriedly into the brush. At that point I noticed a Canadian teen and Indian housewife just up the path looking in awe at something where the first guy had just pointed. Our eyes followed the gaze of the others slowly into the bush. Not ten meters away we saw standing the largest, most majestic elephant I have ever seen. We slowly joined the Canadian teen and Indian housewife to get a closer look. For about ten seconds we all stood, mesmerized and transvexed by the creature’s magnificent presence. Then came a moment; a moment when the seemingly harmless curiosity in the elephant’s eyes flickered instantaneously into a furious rage. We all saw it happen, but before we could react, the mighty beast kicked up its front two legs and trumpeted out the most bloodcurdling cry I have ever heard. The ground rumbled as its two legs came crashing back to the earth. Its tremendous ears folded out erect as it mock-charged us. I was petrified. A rage burned in its eyes deeper than the fires of hell. I extended my arms to feel who was behind me, never taking my eyes off the beast. The Indian housewife was gone. In fact, there was no one left in sight other then mother, the Canadian teen and myself. 65,000 years of sheer survival instinct flamed inside the thing’s eyes.

“Don’t…move. He can’t see us, if we don’t move…” the Canadian teen squeaked. I told him he was an idiot, and slowly backed us off to a safe distance, at which point I yelled for all to run for their lives to the mess hall! As we ran, familiar faces began to emerge from the woodwork. The guest who shushed me, Dave; they all jumped from their respective hiding bushes and ran with us into the mess hall. After we had made it and sat down to have our heart attacks, we saw the elephant had made his way across the path to a nearby swimming hole. The chef came out of the kitchen and said to no one in particular,

“Well, looks like Herman’s sneaking in his noontime swim.” We all had a good laugh about it over a cold round of Castles. You win this round, Herman.

After a few days of Safari hijinx in the blazing bushes of Timbavati, we were all ready for some civilization. We flew to a little place called Capetown. What a horribly terrific town, that is! It is completely up to snuff with any American city in terms of development. Better than some, in fact. But my God, how cheap it was! The city itself is nestled beneath the rugged peaks of Table Mountain and the bay marina where the Atlantic meets the Indian Ocean. I found that Capetown boasts an eclectic mix of folks from all walks of life. It is truly a vibrant community in which there is something for everyone and anything goes. I met the love of my life on the plane down; an Eritrean girl with some Ethiopian influence. She spoke just enough English for us to communicate. One thing she told me was that in her country they have a saying for a man to tell a woman he is courting. Originally created after a war, the man should offer to point his gun towards the sky to shoot heaven on down for her. We were only able to have one night together. We went out to take advantage of the humming nightlife on Long Street. A true rival of the East Village in Manhattan or the Piramide in Rome, Long Street is packed with restaurants, bars, clubs, and discos. There is a chance I will one day return to Capetown for my Eritrean princess and one of the many bountiful jobs ripe for the picking.

On Christmas day, Dave, Mother, and myself met my sister in Johannesburg, and the next day we were on our way to Madland. Being gone for only a week still seemed strange to me, and I was relieved to be back in my element. We all spent New Year’s Eve on Isle St. Marie, a rival to Nosy Be, which you may recall from a previous entry. We had a tremendous time swimming, relaxing, and extreme-ocean kayaking. There were lemurs to be seen, shrimp to be eaten, and sometimes cold beer to be drank. Before I knew it, the time had come for my family to leave me. They all had their lives to resume, as did I. It had been too long since I was in Isoanala, and I was looking forward to getting back. I spent a few days in Tana to air out from the experiences I’d just been through, and then headed back to the spiny desert. Back to where I belong.