Context

And, I’m off. Botswana is behind me. This was my first time experiencing a trip like this. After a prolonged hiatus from life as you know it, it becomes important to realize your experience in the greater picture of the life you share with the people back home. People who are having just as many experiences as you have had while you’ve been away. Though there are no elephants or baobab trees in the stories people will have waiting for you when you return, they are just as excited to tell you their stories as you are to tell yours. Staying in Africa for four months may be the most awesome thing that has happened to you so far this year but it is not the most awesome thing that has happened to your friends and family back home. Are they happy that you went and had the opportunity to visit these amazing places and meet these amazing people? Of course they are! Just as you should be for them if the roles were switched.

The reason I bring this up is because of Scotty. That’s what we’ll call the friend I had that went off to England for six weeks and came back saying things like “when I lived in England” and “half-two” and “bullocks.” Bullocks, that's about how we felt regarding Scotty's trip after the third week of listening to his account of his experience, the way he would utter the syllables of his accounts like some poor Henry James heroine, thinking her naivety de-flowered because she spends one lousy Summer by some European lake like a daisy next to a cow-pie. Sorry, Scotty, but you made the mistake of thinking that your trip changed our lives as much as it changed yours; that we expected you to come back having become slightly British. We didn’t and it made you seem pretentious.

You see, the thing is you can always tell when someone’s being real, when their time abroad has really caused their dialect to change and when it hasn’t, when a sudden obsession with bangers and mash is due to an actual fit of bad taste and when it is due to feigned pomposity. Don’t be Scotty. Be honest and don’t front about what’s going on with you, and, very importantly, remember to be excited for those you know, even if they haven’t returned from six weeks in England.

This may sound cruel, and you may be wondering if I’m worried that “Scotty” is going to see this. No, not at all. Even if he can see through the super secret nickname I gave him, I’ve already expressed all this to him. I have a motto, one of many, and that is, “Friends don’t let other friends be shitty.” If you enjoy someone’s company, don’t let them be a wank. It’s not cool.

I’m writing this en route from Maun to Jossie. Hugo decided that he’s had enough of trying to find a job with all the other pilots in Maun, so he bought a plane ticket on my flight. He’s going to go back to George, SA and see about a teaching gig that he’s been offered. His flight to George isn’t until tomorrow and I’ve got quite a layover in Johannesburg. I wonder what trouble we’ll get ourselves into.

Insect Collecting with Cultural Sensitivity

       For the past two days I’ve been hanging out with this French guy named Hugo. Like so many other people I’ve met here, Hugo came to Africa to be a pilot. And like so many of those other people, it isn’t going well. Hugo’s sticking with it, though. Where as most of the other guys (bush piloting is a major gentlemen’s club, only three woman currently work as pilots in Maun) head home when their three month tourist visas are up, Hugo has been living in South Africa for the last two years. His heart is set on this job and why not? Good hours, pleasant climes and the…eh hem…perks associated with flying young European tourists around romantic Africa. It’s good work if you can get it. 

            But in the mean time, when he hasn't been hanging around the airport (above is a tiny video from my arrival in Maun), Hugo has  been helping me catch insects. It started two days ago with some really crap games of pool, a couple of beers and a conversation about Jehovah’s Witnesses (or “the people who knock on your door and want to talk about how badly you’re living your life” seems to work if someone doesn’t know the English name). Hugo’s girlfriend in South Africa is a Jehovah’s Witness. She’s not super into it though- meaning, she smuggles her kid sister birthday presents when her parents aren’t looking. The fact that Jehovah’s Witnesses are forbidden from participating in extreme sports came up. I knew that they didn’t celebrate…well, pretty much anything…and that singing and dancing aren’t their idea of a decorous time but I’d never heard this one before. Turns out they can’t put their lives in blatant danger. I assume that’s a no-no because if your life is lived completely for God it’s not groovy to risk throwing it away. Neat.

The drier had apparently killed
itself and taken the laundry with it.

Thomas (left) and
Jaime (right) making a
statement

            After he found out that I am studying insects and trying to catch some while I’m here, Hugo wanted to come with me to collect. The next morning we met up to head out. Before we woke up  enough to go, Thomas, a Spanish pilot who arrived about the same time I did, and Jaime, a Portuguese pilot, showed up looking for their laundry. Backpackers has the cheapest laundry service (compare 35 pula for a load of laundry at Backpackers against 15 pula a shirt at Sedia, down the road). When the manager of the establishment came to ask Thomas to step aside with her so she could talk to him, something sounded amiss. They went in the back and when they returned thirty minutes later, Thomas and Jaime looked like they had been battling dragons. Check out the pictures. The drier had apparently killed itself and taken the laundry with it (and I thought it was the ironing boards that got depressed).

            The establishment gave the guys free breakfast but I think the fashion statement that they were making was compensation enough. If burnt shirts become trendy, please don’t buy one (but remember who started it). Hugo and I drove the other two back to Sedia and started collecting on the hotel’s riverfront. I took up the water net to try and find some water beetles, while Hugo went at it with the aerial net. Now, I don’t like to perpetuate stereotypes but there was a quality that came out in Hugo while he collected insects that was just so…French.

            Right away the guy netted two damsel-flies mating. This is always a win while collecting because you know that you have a male and a female of the given species (though one of the museum managers I work with will never take insects in this way). On the next swing, Hugo exclaimed, “I got another one!” I began to walk over to help him to help him get the insect out of the net but didn’t reach him in time. As Hugo examined the insect more closely, he saw that it was a smallish brown beetle. Realizing this, he said, “Ah, but this one is ugly.” and let the insect go.

            I tried to explain that I was interested in general collecting so any insect he caught was fine. Hugo seemed stumped, “Even if it is ugly?” Yes, even if it is ugly someone wants to study it. I don’t think it quite sank in because he kept doing it. At one point, he caught a butterfly and was about to release it because of its saveur douce, when he realized that the butterfly was brilliantly patterned on the inside of its wings. “Ah, no! You want this one, eh, it’s super cool.”

Hugo Guy Perol- Pilot
Turned Bug Critic

            I’m just reporting the facts. To even things up, here’s a joke Hugo told me about Americans. I hadn’t heard it before: “When God was creating the world, He created a land that was beautiful beyond compare and called it America. Filled with breathtaking scenery, the new land was perfect. When God stood back and looked at the world He saw that the new land was so perfect that it was unfair to the rest of the Earth. So, He created Americans.”
             Of course you  could replace "Americans" and "America" with any country you wanted to but the fun of the game is the back-and-forth. Unfortunately, this pun spar never made it past the back...or is it the forth...? I was clueless for a joke at the expense of our frog-leg eating distant cousins. The best I could come up with was  a flat quip aimed at France's military history but my joke  expired quicker than France's victory record after Waterloo.

My Trophy

          Later we ventured to the Sedia poolside to play some volleyball with Thomas and Jaime. Everybody was hungry, so we put stakes on the game: whichever team lost would pay for the winning team’s lunch. Thomas and I won, so Hugo and Jaime treated us to Wine & Dine, the “Chinese” restaurant in Old Mall. Chinese is in quotation marks because, even though an Asian man owns the place, there are only two Chinese dishes: noodles and fried rice. And you have to ask for them; they’re not in the display case. So, yeah, not Chinese food like back home but the noodles, best described as Mu Shu Spaghetti, were good.

            After lunch, I excused myself to “go take a nap.” Really, I wanted to do some more insect hunting sans Michelin assessments of the creatures but I didn’t want to hurt Hugo’s feelings.

Found: 1963

The problem with some people is that when they aren't drunk, they're sober. 

- William Butler Yeats 

Three months later… 

He returned from the bush not slightly battered, not slightly worn and not really as bad as he thought. The pace of the excursion had been like a heavy metal foot petal slamming out something on a drum that could be called a rhythm. Along the way, friends had been made here and there, sprinkled charms on a bracelet. Nothing seemed permanent until it was over. Most of what came to mind immediately were hectic visions of beautiful skies painted with juggled stars, moons, and suns setting and rising, pinned up on some laughing tack board with thirteen broken-down cars, one crippling fever, two dozen fire-side joke sessions and thirty-seven life-sized versions of the Lion King cast. Of the sixteen starting line-up, four remained for over-time, not interested in anything but a tie with the mother continent. As his team-mates had been traded off to their home teams, he smiled. Flying away from beautiful Africa were six young people sad to leave. Twelve fingers that had slowly crossed from thoughts of never being able to return to resolution to return. Six stories of World Trippin’ success. 

So, that’s how it is. I’m back at the beginning, sitting at the Old Bridge Backpacker’s Lodge waiting to get started again. There was far less internet than I had anticipated along the way, so most of the story will have to be told in retrospect. Positive? Hindsight’s twenty-twenty so maybe I’ll catch something I would have missed hurrying to post in real time.
  

The Bridge is a good base camp. If you’re ever in Maun, check it out. It’ll give an indication of why our guide called the city “Miami Beach.” The camping area is cramped and isn’t as cheap as at the Sedia Hotel down the river (50 pula at backpackers vs. 40 at Sedia) but that is more than made up for by the friendliness of the staff and the atmosphere of the tiny lodge when compared with the Sedia. The close quarters are actually a part of the Old Bridge’s charm, attracting a young crowd that abounds with dreadlocks and beliefs that a second Woodstock is just around the corner. Enjoying the colorful night life of the Bridge for a night or two, these youth flood in and out via hitched rides, caravans or old tie dyed Volkswagen mini-buses with hand painted slogans like, "All you need is love, but acid helps."

When I first arrived here, I was more than slightly disgusted by the place. From eight in the morning until the last-call bell rings at nine-forty-five at night, the bar is an ebbing and flowing tide of Maun ex-pats. Two or three usually show up like slightly dodgy clockwork at eight and are not absent from a beer until the last high tide in the night. Maun joke: what’s the difference between a Maun alcoholic and a regular local? Punch line: there is none. It’s dry, true, but when five loaded Brits and one perpetually cross German who look like they’ve had more shit kicked out of them by life than a masochistic South African rugby player are waiting for you to laugh, it’s hilarious. 

This, coupled with the literal metric tonne of smoke being filtered by those old lungs and the seeming impatience of the ex-pats with the Batswana staff, does not make for a good first impression. But then you notice that the ex-pats are making jokes with the staff, laughing at the staff’s insults to them, embracing Batswana locals like war buddies. You notice that more Batswana locals choose to come to Backpackers than any of the other more outwardly friendly establishments in Maun. You notice that in that last high tide, when there is a massive group, nobody is scowling like they are when they’re sitting by themselves. You sit by the river and one of the resident dogs nudges a lemon up to your foot to play fetch; you notice that the dogs are happy, a majorly good indications of positive vibes. And, at some point, you can’t help but notice the massive amounts of Grateful Dead, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd…insert any classic rock standard you can think of…that are pumped out on rerun over the bar’s stereo system. You notice all of this and then you notice that you’re remembering something about Peter Pan and his lost boys. 

These are the world’s lost. You could probably find them in many places. I found them here, in Miami Beach, Botswana, trying to escape from whatever happened to them in their home countries when Jimi and Janis were news instead of history. Maybe they aren’t trying to escape from anything but their marooning by a ship wrecked era. It’s a weird little tribe, the Old Bridge regulars. I’m not defending their rudeness, I’ve been on the receiving end of it. Neither am I describing their coarse lifestyles as a matter of judgment, merely remark. As the propensity of Winston Churchill to drink will not stop his being a positive part of history, neither do these people reflect on the whole of a generation. For a kid like me, they qualify it, give it another texture. Think of them how you will, I’m enjoying my people watching at the moment.

Always remember that I have taken more out of alcohol than alcohol has taken out of me. 

  -  Winston Churchill

Yeehaw! Africa!

People ask me, “Where are you from?” and I reply, “The States.” Look of consternation on the face of the asker. “Which state?” they ask, as if to say “Duh.” and, “Here, let me show you how much more I know about where you’re from than you know about where I’m from.” They figure the odds are in their favor that I’m going to be from one of the 38 more well known states. When I answer that I live in New Mexico, pretty far down on the list for anyone who’s not a cowboy buff, I am met with one of three responses. “Where is that?” they admit, their pompous attitude broken; “Mexico?” they ask, confused and  wondering if the U.S. has done something colonial since they’ve watched the news last; or, “Billy the Kid!”

Yes, Billy the Kid is international. Ironic, seeing as how young William Bonney probably couldn’t have named more than five countries outside the U.S. Be that as it may, to more than a couple of people, the Southwestern United States is still the Wild Wild West. Sorry, Texas, but I think you are pretty consistently lumped in with the Southwest, though I know you hate to be. So, maybe all this is  why Hugo showed up at Backpackers this morning to see if I wanted to go horseback riding. I am  conjecturally a cowboy.

Although the jaunt  was set up through Backpackers, the ride itself started from the Island Safari Lodge. I don’t know much  about  this lodge, as this was only the second time I  had been there and, like this time, my prior visit had been short and purposed. All  I can really comment  on is the  appeal  of the portion of the grounds that I’ve seen-  the bar and dining area. It does make an impression, though. The gorgeous brick-laid bar area runs out from the elongated rondoval indoor section to overlook a  centerfold riverine panorama  that could convince a person, neat whiskey in hand,  that the rest of Maun doesn’t exist. Other than that, I direct  you to their website.

On our way over to Island Safari Lodge, Hugo and  I were reminded of an important thing to remember in Africa- drive a  4 x 4. The ground here is pure sand. There is nothing else. NOTHING  ELSE. And you won’t  just encounter it out on safari. The “highway” system through Botswana consists  of a series of roads that begin as tar roads  close to the  cities and then end abruptly, often sending your car flying out onto a  sandy section that could last for well over a hundred kilometers. Patches of city road remain unpaved, as well. A bridge just before Island Safari Lodge was under construction so traffic was  being diverted through the dry river bed below it. Halfway across, the little sedan  Hugo’s been renting from a taxi ran its  low belly onto the sand and gave up. The motor died and Hugo sighed, “Putain.”

He turned the car back on and tried throwing the wheel back and forth to set the car loose but it was stuck pretty tight. The front bumper was completely dug into the sand. We were  going nowhere. I started laughing and looking around. My laugh was returned by  several men on  their ways to work who had witnessed our unfortunate situation.

Now, here is the beauty of this country.  Give the people an opportunity to make community with a stranger  and they’ll take it. Just like not looking at  people is  the social expectation in New York, being friends with next to  everybody is the social expectation in  Botswana. The guys who had been on their ways to work ran down and immediately started to fix the situation, patting me on the back and making jokes. “River  too deep?” said one guy smiling. “1,2,3.” said another and we all lifted the car as much as we  could. Spraying us with dirt, Hugo  was able to reverse into  a more maneuverable patch of sand. Everyone cheered and continued with the day.

We met our guide, John, at the reception of the lodge. He led us  to the horses, got us mounted  and we hurried off. From the stables we rode down the  lodge’s 1.5 km long entrance drive. Apparently, the lodge has had problems with aggressive drivers…expressing themselves  on  the local squirrel population  (see picture). Along this road, John gave  us a crash course in horseback riding. I remembered a lot of this from  the smattering of rides I have been on- spur the  horse with your heels to walk, spur urgently to canter, again and with  a “Yeehaw!” to gallop and pull on the reigns with  a “Whoa! Boy!” to stop (the “Yeehaw!” and “Whoa! Boy!” were my stock additions to John’s instruction but come on! Riding horses through rural Botswana with  a French guy who thinks I’m a cowboy and I’m not going to have  fun with it?).

The ride itself was lovely. We rode down the dry river bed that Hugo and I  had been  stuck in, around some of the deep  residential dirt  roads several kilometers from the tar road and along a small tributary of the Okavango. I made a  short  video on my iPhone using  Vidify. The song is Life is a Carnival by The Band and you can find it to the side.

One thing that is not in the video that I want to tell you guys about real quick before I log off: the Maun Ricefarm. We were riding along, just as pleasant as could be, us three cow pokes. All of a sudden a bulldog of a 4x4 comes barrelin’ up the road behind us. Barely do we have our horse’s tails out of the way does it come whizzing past us, in a hurry to stop at a big razor wire crowned  gate just up ahead. The four men in the truck, two in the cab,  two in the bed, were  dressed in slacks and white button up shirts with shined  leather shoes and black leather jackets.

While the feller in the  passenger’s seat opened the gate, the two fellers in the bed of the truck stared us down. I realized that they were both ripped underneath their natty threads. The truck  drove through the gate and the passenger side fella’ closed it behind  and climbed back in  the cab. They hurried on just as they had come. We continued riding.

For a kilometer, the barbed wire fence  that was attached to the gate continued next to  our route. Watching  the tiny blades running round the  coils of wire, I tried to guess what had been behind the gate, where the notably attired gentleman had been hurrying to. Military base, super-villain  lair, GQ’s Botswana office, were all guesses that went through my mind. When  I  asked John what was behind that fence and he answered, “Oh, that’s a rice  farm.” I knew that it was  either guess #1 or #2.

Learning from Lacking

Try living without. I think it would be a good idea, whoever you might be. Go without the food you are accustomed to having, both in preference and convenience. Go without those you love, leave them where you cannot chance to hug or kiss them. Go without the comfortable trappings of your life, the minutia that are not perceived when they encompass us but dearly missed when absent.  Even if you don't think you need this kind of change, it will be useful. 

To find that I, a foolish boy who figured himself sufficiently independent of the details of his life, have butted up against the dreary realization of a foreign land and it's lack of all things familiar and cozy is gratifying. Absence makes the heart dwell longer, excited for the new light of old commodities. Taking for granted the worn callouses of home is a sad prospect that is not worth indulging. Food must taste as satisfying as after a hard day's work and the thankful lack of bloated meals. Return to family, friends and the arms of a lover is opportunity wasted when not treated each time as returns from a long journey. A lazy weekend must be an utter delight because it is dogged by the week during which joy is wrought from accomplishment. 

Most remarkable is the weight which is endowed by these thoughts on the present. For once I am ushered away from this African soil, should its absence not sink in my mind just the same? Bereft of the ever present march of elephant through the mopane forest, the endless flights of the giant maribou storks and even the constant periphery of mostly invisible but vocal lion prides, I will begin to drift back to Botswana on longing thoughts. For the expectation of this I am enjoying myself all the more. These reflections only seem, to me, to add to the constant argument inherent in living that to not enjoy oneself when it is possible is a great travesty. 

One More Reason Literacy Rates in America are Shameful

A boy of about eighteen mans the bar here at Backpackers during the afternoon. His name is Gosiame, which means "alright" in Setswana. It's a chill name, which makes sense because Gosiame is a laid back kid. His body is tall as if he'd been stretched from his head and his feat when he was younger. He's interested in the world but says he never wants to leave Maun. I wonder how that mixes in his head. Maybe he does want to see the rest of the world but lack of opportunity and prospects have convinced him that he is only interested in learning about it. This has lead him to reading, though. Avidly, apparently- he finished the Eragon series in a month. Well, almost finished. A German girl left him the first four books and now he wants to get his hands on the fifth. The fantasy aspect of those books appealed to him. A painter by trade, imagination will be useful to him.

He wants to start his own business. Aspirations. He reaches high. That's evident in the literary challenge he is submitting to his broken English at the moment- Anna Karenina. Heavy. He says he's enjoying it, though.

Gosiame isn't the only Maun native who enjoys reading. Old Bridge Backpacker's Lodge is named after the decades old timber and mud bridge that, fifty years ago, was the only entrance to Maun. Under the bridge, there is a small plate of debris from the crumbling of the structure where a young boy has sat for the past five days, from the middle morning to the late afternoon, devouring book after book. I would be hard pressed to keep pace with his voracious literary appetite. Though, I am attempting to quickly relieve myself of the heavy Sherlock Holmes volume which I brought with me. Gosiame says that he will take it off of my hands when I'm done.

Music Trippin'

I have decided that there will be an award and I will call it the Music Trippin' Award. This will be a song or sound that I come across in my travels that deserves, in my opinion, recognition. Here is the first ever Music Trippin' Award. It goes to the exceedingly neat music video for the song Somebody That I Used To Know by Gotye. Check it out below.

The Zoos Are Alive!

Africa has contextualized the zoo for me. It's cool to go to the zoo and see a hippopotamus swimming around in the cement pool that has been constructed for it. Afterward, read the little sign filled with trivia on the animal and a little map of Africa with red shading over the parts where hippos live. Even cooler is seeing these large African mammals in a zoo like the one in Jacksonville, Fl., where the African Mammal's "cages" are a huge expanse of simulated savannah. All of the lions, zebras, giraffes, buffalo, everything, lives in the same enclosure, interacting as normally as possible. I think it's a smart model and the last I heard they don't have to dope the animals to make them happy. Coolest yet is standing on the bank of a river in Africa and not ten feet from you rises out of the calm water a massive, grey head with its mouth open, showing four swords sticking out of its gums and a neck that could fit four of me in the skin around it. Hippos are nothing like what you see in cartoons when you're a child.

Once I was sure that I was not in any danger, I smiled broadly. I couldn't stop smiling. Even if the people here were not friendly, even if the weather were not as beautiful as it has been, a sight like that could make up for it. That is world trippin'. 

I arrived in Maun last Tuesday. Internet access is spotty so I have not been able to write but this country is amazing. The native people, the Batswana, are very friendly to me. Kina tells me that it is because I am white. That they treat her differently because when she speaks English, they assume that she (a black woman) is being rude by not speaking Setswana. There is a large community of ex-pats here in Maun. They are, for the most part, useless. No group escapes their condescension; not the foreigners passing through because these ex-pats label themselves "local," nor the natives for, when it is convenient, the ex-pats will cite their country of origin. They lounge about all day, supplied for booze from the money they "earn" from owning lodges or managing lodges owned by friends. I hazard to call a living like this "earning" as there is such a disparity between what a white will make and what a black will make. Often the native working as a maid or bell boy in the lodges around Maun will make something akin to $10 US a day. Of course no foreigner would move to Maun in order to work as a part of the service staff so I will turn to a more educated position, such as accountant for a lodge, for a comparison. Kina has a friend who makes $20,000 US a year in one of the wealthiest lodges in Gaborone. I was talking with a woman from South Africa who works at a comparable lodge in Maun for $100,000 US a year. Hmmm...

Anyway, serious stuff aside, I'm having a blast. The day I arrived, I was taken to the Old Bridge Backpackers Lodge where I was greeted with a boat ride. Sure, why not. It was pretty along the river. The boat was full and so I sat near the bow. There was a Belgian sitting close to me and I began to chat with him. His name was Nicholas and we've 
Been hanging out for the past week. One of the guys from Backpackers jumped in the river :-/ The next day, a guy who lives on the bank next to where this guy jumped in said that he'd seen the biggest crocodile he'd ever seen in that river right there just a day before...better to be lucky than good, I suppose. 

After I had a chance to get settled in, I started to meet an endless stream of travelers. A couple traveling from Switzerland, an American just out of the peace corps and doing one final tour of Africa on his motorcycle before returning to The States for the first time since 2009, a Norwegian on holiday, another American traveling with his sister, two French fellows passing through and the list goes on and on. Finally, I met two Italian guys named Mattieu and Peeter. They were from the North of Italy, near the alps. Nice guys. They were chartering a plane for a scenic tour of the Okavango Delta and had an unfilled seat. Uh...yes. 

Once we left Maun, there was a buffer of about thirty kilometers where we didn't see anything. After that buffer, I began to notice that there were tiny objects moving about the landscape. Like toy figurines, the wildlife moved below us. Hippos dotted the streams and rivers, never more than four together. Herds of antelope and zebra cooled themselves under short trees. Buffalo did the same but with huge births given to their herds. All escaping the afternoon heat. 

Only the elephants and the giraffes seemed to be moving about. "Elephant!" cried a girl in the back and we looked down and saw a big bull elephant trotting along a path, grabbing tufts of leaves from the trees on either side of him and stuffing them in his mouth. A little further we saw two mother elephants herding a line of young elephants. One mother was a the front and the other was at the back. They moved a steady clip and I wondered if they were running from something or if maybe they were just late for an elephant engagement. Whenever one of the young would step out of line, the mother in the back would raise her trunk and the young one would hop back. If you're thinking this had to be the cutest thing in the world, you are right. At least, it was cute enough to keep us cooing until we saw the giraffes. 

What I first thought was a branch among a group of trees started bobbling about in a very un-treelike fashion. I realized that it was giraffe youth kicking and bucking. I looked for a lion or hyena because I thought the violent behavior must indicate an attack of some sort. No such thing, the kid stopped bucking and started jumping about in lanky, sloppy circles. Soon, I saw the second giraffe youth and a group of taller animals to the side. Both of the youths began to bobble around in this goofy fashion. They were dancing, I suppose. 

That's the news from Africa, adventurers. 

Keepin' It Together

So, I'm in the terminal waiting for my plane to leave for Madrid. Already, a day has gone by in travel. Left from Albuquerque at 7:30 mountain time and arrived in Chicago around 11:00 central time. My lay-over here has been about five hours so far and there's another solid hour before the plane will actually be off the ground. Touch down in Spain should be tomorrow morning around 8:00 CET, rounding the trip to twenty-four hours. Then, I have a lay-over at the Madrid-Barajas Airport until midnight the following morning, a period of time that, once through customs, doesn't allow for finding a hotel room but is too long to stay cooped up in the airport. Maybe I'll be able to find something to do, although I do have to consider the surplus store that I'm carting with me: a total of 150 lbs of gear. Boarding the midnight flight, I'll head South, over the Sahara (too bad we'll be passing in the night because I bet the desert is a sight from 30,000 feet), Eastern Africa and Botswana to Johannesburg, South Africa. Spend the night at the Southern Sun Hotel in Kempton Park. Next morning, board the last flight and finally arrive in Maun, Botswana around 12:00 a.m.

"Whoa." said Keanu Reeves. 

That's four days of travel through three cities. It tends that the higher the ratio of time to cities during air travel, the more agonizing the journey. Let's call this the Snail Shell Principle (the larger the disparity between a snail and its shell, the more time it will likely spend at rest due to the strain of its  resting mechanism, thus the irony of the aforementioned ratio is repeated; for shouldn't a trip split between fewer cities over a larger span of time be more relaxed? No. It doesn't work that way.)

So, being faced with the prospect of the Snail Shell Principle, how will I handle this trip? Will I simply give in and curl up in the shell? No! That would make me a schmoe. Maybe if I was rich and had the money to travel all the time I would have the luxury of being a wimp but I'm not and...I'm not. I have to enjoy as much of this trip as I can. Have to be thrifty with my travel experiences. 

Thus, I must adapt and develop a survival strategy. Some people drink themselves stupid on the first leg of their trip and just  ignore the Snail Shell. Others talk...a lot...to anybody...about anything...everything...terribly awkward things...(Sorry guy on my last flight, I don't want to play Siggy Frued with you but, yes, I do think your unhealthy stream of sexual conquests stems from abandonment issues. Or, maybe you're just an asshole.)

Eh, these are temporary solutions. What happens when the drinker sobers up (want a Tylenol?) What happens when the talker runs out of people to talk to? Or gets spit on?

Answer: doom. 

A lasting solution is preferable. Here are five things that I have found to be incredibly helpful shell shucking strategies:

5. Ration sleep for yourself. 

If you have the discipline to commit to sleeping when the folks in your final destination are sleeping, good on you. Usually, I can fall asleep whenever I want to, especially when it's dark out. Never really had a problem with jet-lag. When I do think that I'm going to need to sleep during a period when I don't normally and I want to make sure that I can I use caffeine. Yes, the dreaded crash after guzzling a 20 oz. Redbull can be useful. Use the sugar high to keep yourself awake in the airport, then crash on the plane. Or vice versa, depending on what you find more comfortable. I know this tip won't be endorsed by any medical professionals but it works for me. 

4. Use music. 

The first time Bill Gates ever saw an iPod, it was shown to him by a reporter writing a story for Steve Jobs on the new invention. Gates remarked that it was brilliant and then excused himself to make a phone call. Maybe "Zune" was the sound that Gates heard in his head at that moment as he realized that his rival had just made one of the biggest technological innovations ever. I would argue that the iPod has changed global consciousness. With the ability to listen to any song that we want to from our entire music library anywhere that we want to has come a new era of conceptualization of the world through those songs. I'm sure anyone scaling Mt. Everest these days has an "I'm King of the World" playlist (personally, I would play the theme from Lion King when I reached the summit and whisper to myself, "One day, all this will be yours."). When you're feeling the drag of travel throw on some pump up music to keep on keepin' on. When you need to relax throw on some Miles Davis or Thelonius Monk and stay cool. 

3. Stay fresh. 

You may not be able to shower on a long haul or change into a new outfit but you can still carry a toothbrush and a 2 oz. tube of toothpaste, run some water through your hair and reapply deodorant. Any way to keep feeling new as you fall into the time-warp of crossing time zones will crush the Snail Shell. Especially the deodorant thing. ESPECIALLY THE DEODORANT THING. Planes are tight spaces and I get why some people don't wear deodorant but a. Aluminum zirconium trichlorohydrex is only in antiperspirants and b. there's a certain amount of decorum that should be observed in situations like this so that everyone can have a nice flight. Seriously, don't be that guy. 

2. Stay hydrated. 

Water lost from your body during periods of stress is life lost from your body. Guzzle that H2O. You may have to say "excuse me" to your neighbor on the plane more often than usual but it's worth it.

1. Wash your face and change your socks. 

I was going to put this under "stay fresh" but it needs its own category. I don't know why this works so well but it does. I have found that if I can do nothing else, as long as I wash my face and change my socks when I start to feel weighed down, I'm ready to go another round. Trust me, try this. 

Crack on adventurers.

New Mexico Trippin'

And, I'm off. Woke up this morning at five (late). American Eagle flight #3865- Albuquerque to Chicago O'Hare. As I stepped onto the airplane, the East mountains peaked over the top of the airport and the sun was cresting over the mountains, all sorbet and swirled cream. I'll miss the solar acrobatics of the New Mexico sky.

We're flying over Tucumcari now (posted post-flight). Mikey Fischer's Rocky Mountain Melts is dubbing in my headphones. Ever seen New Mexico from the air? This is a land of tucked away places. Hidden portions of water secreted in man-made reservoirs. Not visible from the highway that I drive every week but within five miles of the exits to the pueblos. It hasn't snowed in some time yet there are patches of snow rationing themselves on the sides of hills and embankments, hiding from the sun and milking the shadows of the sandstone. The land itself is tucked away within itself. Vast expanses of flat brown surrender suddenly to articulate outcroppings of limestone and granite.

Dramatic. That's the adjective that keeps coming to my head when I see anything of natural beauty in this place. Residents of NM, watch the sun set tonight and tell me I'm wrong. Looking out the window- well, nevermind. My point has proof. A sky lacking in everything but blue suddenly filled with clouds and hid my view. I start to compliment the Land of Enchantment and she hides herself. What a diva. Dramatic.

Missing and Dissing 2: Tether Snipping

Ever thought about throwing your cellphone or computer in a river? Or bringing some other piece of technology to a glorious end à la Office Space? Yes? No? Neither answer would be surprising and we all probably move back-and-forth on the "techno-loathing" spectrum (well, most of us- the folks at Anonymous probably don't believe that people could ever feel this way and I'm fine with that because somebody has to take a stand against something as ridiculous as Scientologyor S.O.P.A., P.I.P.A. and A.C.T.A.). I'm completely murcurial on this subject. I LOVE my new iPhone 4S. Since I bought it about a month ago, it has barely left my side. Yet, with all that connectivity to the rest of the world in the palm of your hand comes great...over stimulation. Sometimes I blink really hard, open my eyes, realize how much information is permeating my brain and give a Keanu Reeves, "whoa." At that point of saturation about the only thing to do is set the device down, pinch tobacco into my pipe and take a stroll through the arroyo.

Now we arrive at the crux of this Missing and Dissing post. This time, what I'm going to miss and what I don't mind leaving behind happen to be the same thing: the internet.

The internet is awesome. Arguably, it is one of the (if not the) most significant developments in human history since our ancestors said, "I'm getting kinda pruny. Wanna see what the big deal with dry land is?"

EVERYTHING is on the internet. I learned to play the piano, penny whistle and harmonica on the internet, I watch television solely on the internet. Thanks to Project Gutenburg(one of my favorite sites), I was able to cure a night of insomnia with a free ebook of the Iliad. The Khan Academy is attempting to provide world-class education for free. TED.com presents stimulating lectures from some of the greatest minds of this age...again, for free (notice that trend of not having to pay? Maybe the pirates are on to something...?). There's YouTube, Wikipedia, news sites, internet radio, movies, blogging, Instructables, guides to everything, opinions on everything, facts on everything! Not to mention all the memes and LULZ!

"Whoa." said Keanu Reeves.

Where was I? Oh, yeah, why I'm glad to get away from the internet. That can be reduced to the following: all of the above reasons. Everything that makes the internet freaking fantastic is also what makes it suck. It's the fact that you can jump from one terrific site to the next, to the next, to the next, until you look up and the clock that said "3:00 pm" five minutes ago now reads "6:00 pm." For example, if you were to read this blog entry and visit and read all of the sites that I link to in it, you would have visited sixteen websites (including this one) and read over 15,000 words. All started from one eight paragraph blog entry.

A motto that has always stuck with me is the age-old axiom: knowledge is power. Yet, there must be a line drawn when the knowledge starts to muddle together and the power that one gains from the knowledge accumulated is corrupted by the adage that quality is better than quantity. When that starts to happen, it's good to forget about anything that doesn't supply its own power and just take a walk. Whistling helps too.


(I have the feeling that some people reading this might need a little explanation of what memes and LULz are. Memes are actually a very interesting concept. An example of one is to the left. You can also read this. LULz are a little bit more difficult to grasp if you didn't grow up ROFL, so check this out. And, for your continuing education, there's always LOLcats.)

Etta James

On a non-traveling note: rest in peace Etta James.

It's impressive to be someone that people fall in love to.

Etta James sings Something's Got Ahold of Me. 1962.

Missing and Dissing: #1

Naturally, we all start to miss things while we're away. In an earlier post, I mentioned the mountains and the juniper trees. I'll definitely miss those. Sandia and the Sangre de Cristos become sort of constant friends when you live out here. Even more than them, I'm going to miss Saint Francis Cathedral. I'm not religious but it's a beautiful building. I like to walk past it whenever I'm in Santa Fe. Standing in front of a structure that represents something as immense as the Catholic church makes you realize where you are on the globe: an object taking up maybe two square feet of space on a planet whose surface area is about 510,072,000 square kilometers. I'm tiny. I like that. It means there's more room to roam. With the internet and global communication connecting a desktop to the furthest reaches of the world, everything starts to seem a little cramped and standing in front of St. Francis is my way of broadening the perspective.

(Although, the global population may not share this perspective: yikes!)

Now, the fun part. What won't I miss? Come on, there's a hundred reasons to travel. Not the least among them being the desire to "get away from it all." So, what is "it all?" There's probably an infinite number of things. I'll start with just one:

ADVERTISING

Ads are everywhere. I'm looking around my house right now and the only place I don't see advertising is on my own body and the cats. There are little symbols on everything we buy that are designed to be memorable so that when we see them in stores we know exactly what brand is represented by them. Repetition makes humans trust more (science!). Marketing has become a cacophony that is impossible to ignore. Especially on the internet. Three-and-a-half months in the bush with no connectivity is going to be awesome!

Exhibit A:



It's a little blurry but it says "Ozzy has a secret fantasy. Click here for a chance to win his fantasy." Uh...Ozzy Osborne has a secret fantasy and someone thinks I am even curious as to what it is? No thank you. I mean, despite his fall from rock grace, I love old school Ozzy and I'm stoked for the return of Black Sabath (dubious but stoked). However, the prospect of winning Ozzy Osborne's fantasy is only a little less terrifying than the prospect of winning tickets to a John Wayne Gacy gallery opening hosted by the "artist."

Oh, well. Advertising isn't going anywhere. If only they could be a little more entertaining, like this Captain Morgan spot my friend Garner showed me: Captain Morgan's 'To Life, Love & Loot.'

"Dr. Livingstone, I presume?"

"Dr. Livingstone, I presume?" asked Henry Morton Stanley.

"Yes, and I feel thankful that I am here to welcome you." replied Dr. Livingstone.

With those trite words, Mr. Stanley became the first European to greet David Livingstone in six years. Though, he seemed to be a little dodgy in the eyes, when Stanley found him on the shores of lake Tanganyika. Turns out her majesties famous explorer had become very ill and a little crazy. Stanley urged Livingstone to come with him but the doctor was determined to finish his mission in Africa. Despite his inglorious later years, David Livingstone was an important Victorian figure who, for the better or the worse, helped shape Africa's future.

I've been looking at some of my books on the guy and I realized there are a couple of things that any traveler can take away from his experiences. I have summarized and cheapened them below for your convenience.


Three Things David Livingstone Can Teach the Modern Explorer:

1. Travel light.

Often, the person toting the triad of upright rollers with their entire wardrobe and "essential shower kit" on a trip is not the most prepared. Also, it's usually not the scruffy dude with the least amount, either ("I'm sorry you didn't bring enough deodorant but that's what we call a 'non-sharable' item."). As with most circumstances, there's a happy medium. Pack only what is necessary (and, no, your Gameboy is not necessary unless you work for a game developer and you're headed to a conference). True essentials. Only what the journey calls for.

My problem is usually books. "What if I need to look this up? Or reference this other tome?" I usually need someone to talk me down and show me reason, "Eoghan, do you really think that you'll use this un-abriged Webster's dictionary on this weekend's camping trip? And, I know you've been wanting to finish it for a while, but...Moby Dick? Really? For the weekend?" Once it's pointed out to me, I feel foolish but lighter. We all have our traveling guilty pleasures- books, hair care products, video games, DVDs- and we all have a friend that is willing to tell us how stupid we'll feel when we get tired of carrying it all.

Livingstone was known for traveling light and it came in handy. Most other Europeans at the time traveled to Africa with huge posses of slaves and servants armed to the teeth. Not surprisingly, the locals assumed that they were either being invaded or feared that the approaching whites were slave traders. Doesn't start things off on the right foot. Which brings us to...

2. Don't Piss Off the Locals

Duh? Right? Wrong. There's a reason that American's are not well thought of in certain places around the world (other than the Middle East) and we can't blame it all on the Bush years. A couple of words of wisdom: yelling doesn't increase another person's comprehension of English, snapping at waiters and using "garson" as a universal term for serving staff is borderline colonial and for heaven's sake don't giggle at every stone carving of a penis you see.

Don't get me wrong, America isn't the only nation being held back a grade for cultural insensitivity. I stayed at a jungle lodge in Peru once where the majority of the lodgers were wealthy British folks. One night I heard Juan, the Peruvian bartender, called "boy" so many times that I had to retire early.

One huge step toward ingraciating oneself to the citizens of a country is to learn a toast and cheers to their health (again, other than the Middle East). I haven't been able to find a specific toast to health in Tswana but I did find "Masego ke ao" which means "Good luck!" That should suffice until I learn a good one.

A friend of mine met a group of Russians one night at a bar in New Zealand. He doesn't speak Russian but he knew, "Na zdorovje!" True, if you do a little research, it turns out that this is not really a drinking cheer but an answer to "spasibo" (thank you). It didn't matter, though, he hung out with them all night and had a great time. He had no idea what they were saying but they smiled and laughed and that's universal.

Livingstone apparently had a knack for winning over the chiefs of villages during his travels. He became so beloved in the village where he died that the residents refused to release his body to the British government. When they finally did return it, his heart was cut out and there was a note that read, "You can have his body, but his heart belongs in Africa!"

3. Don't let the stooge make you the stooge.

Unless you're traveling as a pair (occasional stooging but hopefully you made a good choice in travel companion) or by yourself (if you're traveling by yourself and there's a stooge, you need a moment next to a tulip field or something), there is bound to be a stooge at some point. The stooge can switch people and it can be a conglomerate of personalities riled up over a circumstance and each other. In big groups, it doesn't seem to shift. Pretty early on the stooge shows their face and then it's up to you not to snap.

Someone will have a problem with every single food item put before them. Someone can never stop trying to tell the rest of the group what to do. Someone thinks their Carlos Mencia impression is spot on even though its only similarity with the source material is that it's really, really bad.

The stooge has a way of pulling others into their world. Suddenly, because the stooge is annoying you, you start to become annoying and add to the stooge. Don't let the stooge get you down! Don't let someone make you responsible for their good time. If it comes down to it, you can always just walk off singing Safety Dance.

Okay, so anyone who knows a little bit about Livingstone, knows that this one is a little bit of a stretch. For one thing, if there was a stooge in some of Livingstone's expeditions, it was him. On the Zambezi expedition, John Kirk, Livingstone's physician, wrote, "I can come to no other conclusion than that Dr. Livingstone is out of his mind and a most unsafe leader." But if you look at it from the explorer's point of view, he had a job that he was going to do despite any objections. Maybe back then, they called the stooge a Livingstone.

10 Days

So, when I said about two weeks, the "about" was appropriate. I leave in ten days. That's not a lot of time. Now the anxiety sets in. With any trip there is a necessary level of apprehension as to one's readiness for the journey. You know, the "I forgot something, I know I did. I have to have" feeling. Usually, it works out. Most of the time we didn't forget anything, we're just stressing. Sometimes, we do forget something but do we notice? Most of the time, no! You're too busy enjoying the trip.

As easy as it is to forget your troubles once the wheels of the plane have retracted, the car has reached fourth gear, or the boat has pulled away from the dock (maybe ignore that last one in light of recent events), while you're still home, unless you're the Clock King from Batman you're going to have anxiety.

I've been dealing with this through the extensive use of lists. To do lists, to buy lists, gear lists, packing lists, lists of the lists so that I don't lose count or recreate a list. I'm a pen-and-paper kind of guy. I always carry a notebook or a pocketbook on me so that I easily jot down notes or lists. Yet, lately, I've been straying into the ever cozy world of the iPhone. Everything is in one place, everything is maybe two strokes away. And I do mean everything.

One program, in particular, that helped me with the packing lists was an app. called Packing Pro. I know Livingstone is probably rolling in his grave right now and don't get me wrong, I'm going to continue to carry my pocketbooks, but the future is here and I don't begrudge anyone who wants to shake its hand.

A Fortnight

In about two weeks, I leave for Botswana. Everyone I know who's been there tells me it's fantastic. The internet seems to second that opinion. A PhD student in the museum I work in used to live there. She calls it paradise on Earth. That's a high accolade but right now, as I write this in Cerrillos, NM, where the weather has recently scuttled above freezing, any sub-Saharan country seems like paradise on Earth. Except for maybe the Sudan...or Somalia. Don't get me wrong, I love the snow on the mountains and the crisp winter air filtered through frosty juniper trees. I was born in Miami, though, and the prospect of warmer climes makes me hum "Boat Drinks" by Jimmy Buffet. Ironically, though, Botswana is land-locked.



That doesn't mean there's no water. We'll be catching the tail end of the rainy season on the Okavango. I'm sure the erratic showers will wear on us after a while, but those first few storms will be awesome! And, when the fun of being in a storm after so long in the desert disappears, there will still be the view. The rains are highly regional. Often it will be raining in one area but completely dry only ten kilometers away. I think I'll watch the animals graze in the delta in front of a backdrop of pouring storm clouds doing the same.