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.