The Favours of the Road

“Think small, inconspicuous and less than attractive thoughts”, I repeated to myself, as I leaned in close to the truck door. After my last hitchhiking experience, I felt like I might be truly pushing my luck in jumping into another big rig again. At least there was only one person in this truck though.

“But maybe that’s a bad thing”, my brain whispered to me.

“Shush!” I demanded. “Nervous thoughts will only make me look more vulnerable than I already am.”

And so the dialogue with myself continued, as we drove along. Mango didn’t seem to notice though. He didn’t seem to be overtly threatening. His eyes stayed on the road and small talk was minimal. He asked me where I was headed and when he heard that I was thinking Springbok, but eventually Cape Town, he suggested that I just skip Springbok entirely. He himself was going to the Cape Town area. If I decided to just continue with him, I could have one continuous ride all the way from Keetmanshoop to Cape Town – no small feat, as there was over 1000 kilometers between the two. It would give him company along the way and be a direct trip back to Cape Town for me, leaving more time to visit with relatives before leaving Africa.

My brain whirred in thought. It was a fantastic offer and for R50, I couldn’t beat the price. A bus would have cost me at least double that and if I got out of the truck, I would then have to scavenge God knows how many more rides in order to get closer to where my flight would be departing in two weeks time. Plus, the sooner that I got to Cape Town, the more that I would be able to squeeze in, like a visit with aunts, uncles, cousins, a trip up Table Mountain, out to Cape Point, my Dad’s birthplace of Hermanus and maybe even another wine tour!

Of course, I could stay in the truck, watch Mango turn into a super sleaze ball and/or worse. I did not know the man and from experience, was leery about trusting anyone now.

Were my guardian angels still in place? Was it time for me to be tested again? If I fell asleep, would I wake up? All thoughts that had me sitting on the far edge of my seat. But I had listened to fate before and this could be another gift presented. Was this Africa’s final offer of faith? Time would surely tell, but was I willing to wait and see?

As the miles flew underneath the truck’s wheels, conversation ebbed and flowed between Mango and I. He smiled, but hands did not cross over to my side of the truck. We chatted, but it was sparse due to limited language between us more than anything. He seemed a simple man, doing his job and nothing more. My presence in the truck was a kindness and the norm for travel on African roads. I suspect that some ladies paid their fare in “favours”, especially when they travelled alone, but I continued to hold out hope that I would not have to pay this fee for my passage. My hope was that I served more as company, extra pocket money for his troubles, and distraction to keep him from being bored or falling asleep. Accidents along African roads had become legendary in traveller’s tales everywhere I went. Keeping a solo driver alert was more than just a perk at times – it was often a lifesaver.  

The border approached and decisions would soon need to be made. You never knew how long you would be held up at the border, but once across it was only a few hours further to Springbok. The longer I travelled with my new companion, the more comfortable I became. Was it worth it to skip Springbok altogether, and a potential visit with cousins, in order to get to Cape Town faster? A deep breathe told me to take one step at a time and enjoy the world going by my window until the universe told me different. 

And Namibia flew by. 

Mango Delivery

As I left the hostel behind, I swung my pack onto my back for the last time on the road. Keetmanshoop was a small town and acted only as a short rest stop for me.  Time marched on and so must I. There was now less than two weeks left of my African Adventure, so every moment was precious. I had no time left to play idle tourist, when there was a finite amount of time left to get back to Cape Town and squeeze in a quick final visit with relatives. It was time to move on.

Sadly, when I evaluated the last of my funds, I found that a train trip back to Cape Town, or even Springbok for that matter (where a cousin lived), would be too dear for my pocketbook. My options were limited. So putting trepidation aside, I decided to try my hand at hitchhiking once more. My spiritual renewal in Swakopmund had refueled my faith in the fates again, so I set my mind to the end goal.  I crossed my fingers that I wouldn’t run into any rides reminiscent of my last hitchhiking fiasco. Or worse, for that matter.

So with a prayer to my angel wing-man, I turned from the train station and headed out to the highway. I couldn’t help but pull out the camera to take a quick snap of my beat-up, dusty old pack that had seen thousands of miles pass under it. There wasn't much left of it or in it, besides the thin orange and brown polyester sleeping bag and an assortment of even thinner clothes. It was hard to believe that I would be hanging it up soon. Even harder to think about leaving this beautiful land, that I still felt like I was only just beginning to know. When I thought of the family and friends that I would soon see, I was spurred on to action though. I slid my camera back into my pack, just as a big rig approached. I stuck out my thumb and the truck slowed to a stop. This was it, I thought to myself, as I swung up into the cab. 

And as the truck lumbered back up to speed, I met Mango. 

Still Looking

My journal entries got longer and more verbose as the days went by. It was to be expected I suppose, as I spent most of my days alone. It left me more time to think and hence write those thoughts down. After travelling with so many people, through so many places, it was kind of nice to be left to my own devices. But in truth, it kind of scared me too. With all those kilometers under my belt, I felt like I should have some kind of hold on the world by now. Instead, I still wondered what I wanted to be when I grew up. More importantly, I wondered what I would do with myself when I returned back home to Canada. The answer seemed no closer than when I had left home over nine months before.

I returned to the best way to avoid thinking about the present moment – through travel. I left Swakopmund behind and took in Windhoek and its sights. I visited the Alte Feste and learned a little more about Namibian history. A Natural History museum provided information about some of the local animals I would see if I were to explore the game parks in the area. Interesting, but I had no time left for game parks.All I had left was the opportunity to read about cheetahs, rhinos and some of the aboriginal cultures that existed in the area. My time was ticking now though and it was more about quantity over quality.

From Windhoek, I boarded a train and blissfully watched the miles pass me by from the safety of its rocking compartment. It was the first time in my African excursion that I had the luxury of train travel, but the eleven hour journey left me a little less than impressed. Thankfully, it was an overnight trip, so at least a few of the hours slipped by unencumbered. Of course it also amounted to more time to ponder my fate, so when I arrived in Keetmanshoop my journal had a few more pages of notes added to it.

At this rate though, there would not be many more pages left to write. I had made it official. With a bittersweet heart, I changed my plane ticket for the last time. In a little over two weeks, I would fly out of Cape Town for Germany, then home. All that was left to do now was to get to Cape Town. Keetmanshoop deserved a cursory exploration, but as I debated what this arid town held to offer, I knew my heart was no longer in it. It was time to go home. 

Ocean's Kiss

I couldn’t resist. I slipped my shoes off so that I could wiggle my toes in the sand. It was delicious and extremely therapeutic for my aching soul. I was alone, but not lonely with my company. I was in the desert! The Atlantic Ocean stretched out before me and behind me the Namib Desert shifted and drifted, as far as the eye could see. Life surrounded me and it was beautiful.

The lapping waves reminded me that home was closer than ever. The mighty Atlantic Ocean kissed my feet here, then travelled to the East coast of Canada to deliver my love to the wind. Perhaps it would whisper its secret message to my Mother, as she stepped out of her car on arriving home that evening? Who knows? But its music filled me with the peace in this moment, making us as one. I lifted my face to the sky with a smile.

As I listened to the Earth speak to me, poetry surged through my mind. My Grandfather lingered there and offered me his blessings. With a tear, I picked up a pen and offered thanks.

Now all I hold is a polished stone

And a picture in my hand

But your loving glow

Pumps my heart to go

Eternity is yours for all time

-Love in a circle-

Every day is a good day, in the fact that it has been. 

Talking to the Wind

Dear Grandpa;

You lead a full and satisfying life. To you, three daughters were born, and have since gone on to do you proud. They presented you with grandchildren, whom you spoiled and cherished, every chance you got. You even got to see a great-grandchild before leaving this living world. Indebted, we are all a legacy to you.

You saw so much in your lifetime. The television came into existence, along with VCRs, fax machines and now the internet. You fought in World War II and served for many years afterwards in the Air Force. You sweated in steel mills, but I remember you sweating in the garden most. That lovely garden you built on Pender Island, along with a beautiful house to go with it. My memories of that house and garden will warm me for a long time to come.

I clasp my hand around a stone you polished and set. I do not know if it was specifically for me, but I cherish it none the less, for your effort into it. You were always working with your hands, creating something whether it was a green house, the ‘discomboobulator’, a ‘gotcha stick’, or your famous peanut butter sandwiches. You were always doing something. Even in your later years you were President of your local Legion, played bridge once a week with your lady friends on Pender, and you still had time to help advise your children and grandchildren on major life decisions. I recall my Mom, your eldest, asking for advice on job offers. Your youngest also consulted you for advice on important decisions. You had a good head on your shoulders and everyone knew it. Even in your last six months, you were looking into a job for me, despite major operations, recoveries and meeting the newest of your seven grandchildren.

Grandpa, you were the father that I never had. You taught Kerry and I (your favourites, you always said) how to spit, to collect wood and stones (still do that, especially this trip), to gather eggs when you had chickens, to fish, to play crib (and count via muggins), to blow my nose (which I should do now- sniff, sniff) and many of the manners that I rely on today. I have iconized (I know you would tell me to look that word up!) you in speeches (remember my grade 5 speech on your inventions!), in my memories of the summers Kerry and I spent with you and Grandma, (integral to my growing up and formation of personal beliefs and traits), as a teacher (I too have asked your opinion, mine on writing). It seems you had a hand in everything. While expert may be a bit of a strong word, your general knowledge was broad and indepth.

I love you for your hat and suspenders. I picture me snapping them and …Aggh”! Despite your military breeding, that I did not necessarily always agree with (“Front and Centre!”), it taught me respect for my elders and authorities, at least to a certain degree. We finally got you to start using a “please” now and then though, with much effort from our army of kids.

Now I recall helping you on with your socks and can see in my mind’s eye your varicose veins; snakes or worms you called them. I picture you in your rubber boots, with a chain saw in hand, sticking out your dentures at the kids (“arrh!”) and Grandma complaining “Geordie!”

Oh you could make us laugh! I recall more images of you slapping the blunt edge of a knife into elbows, with the words “elbows off the table” or “are you tired?” Your famous pout-catchers almost always got us laughing again, despite stubborn tears. The dreaded whisker rub made us shriek every time too. I could go on and on.

Grandpa, I love you dearly and always will. I carry you with me wherever I go. You are a part of me, as you are a part of everyone you touched. I cannot even begin to paint a complete picture of you, as the colours I have available are insufficient and drab, as compared to the rainbows you left on people. The respect you earned from the world, I flaunt as a memory to you. Many will pause, as your spirit touches the wind.

To SGT George McLeod: husband, father, grandfather, great-grandfather; The 23 years I have known you are not enough, but as the hurting flesh is laid to rest, your essence carries me on. May your heart be felt forever in those that pump your blood. Go well, strong warrior. Stay well.

Love ∞

And with that, a scotch was raised to my lips in memory of a great man. My eyes stung, as the ice clinked against my teeth, but I valiantly swallowed my sorrows along with the libation. My Grandfather had died the month before on my birthday. Teardrops littered my journal, as I paid homage to him. The hugs I needed and craved for release were over 6000 kilometres away, but there was nothing that could be done about that now.  I was alone with a grief that needed to be heard by someone, but all I could do was talk to the wind. So I did. 

A Phone Call Home

The day dawned on my first full day in Swakopmund. I was anxious to get in contact with relatives back home, so found a phone as soon as I could. I hadn’t spoken with anyone for over two months, plus had not been very good with my written communication either. All I had sent them was the pictures of me and Nimesh, when I was dressed up in the full regalia of a sari and accoutrements back in Dar es Salaam. For all they knew, the pictures could have been my wedding photos. My Mother had worried about that from the day I left, as that would have matched my father’s tale of leaving home, never to return for having fallen in love on the road. While that was not the case here, they didn’t know that. And as for me, they couldn’t get in touch with me either, as I was constantly on the move.

So now I was eager for their voices and any news to catch up on. I rang through to Canada and joyfully heard my sister’s voice on the other end.  Sadly, my resulting phone call left my spirits far from high.

*****

And as it is Halloween night, that is all you get tonight. Hope you had lots of spooks visit you this evening! Boo!!!!

A Toast to Swakopmund

I was never so happy as to touch solid ground in Swakopmund. I had no urge to look back at the truck that had carried me across the desert, when it pulled away from me. Good riddance. The dual drivers had tarnished my sense of security and shortened a few years off my life. I had battled groping hands and a sense of doubt in humanity. Despite my fears though, I had made it.

As I settled into the bar at a new hostel, my first sip of Windhoek beer was like heaven. I had earned this beer, but somehow felt like I didn’t deserve it. My sense of being tainted left me feeling dirty. I could not change the past though, so instead let it go with hope for a new day bringing fresh smiles and happiness.

 Tomorrow, I would see the ocean again. The South Atlantic was just outside my view, but I could feel the salt air on my skin. It was a new coast for me and I was excited to see these western waves. For the time being, I looked forward to my first bed in three nights and a safe roof over my head. I enjoyed the stability of being stationary, the solitude of being solo and the peace that came with my pen on paper. A cold beer helped my troubles melt away and my journal reminded me that lessons can always be learned. The sun would rise again and I was blessed to be able to witness it.

A toast to Swakopmund.

The Night Ride

The happiness I felt at rolling along again was sadly short lived. While I received the luxury of sitting in the front seat, I quickly found that my driver was not nearly as courteous as the last driver. He had a certain tone to his voice that made my smile fade a little. I tried to focus on the road ahead gamely, but could not ignore the noises that soon began to filter forward from the back bunk.  

Things seemed to be going from bad to worse.

As the sun set, we drove along in darkness. Few other vehicles passed us by. We were in the desert, driving towards the coast and it seemed even more isolated now that the sun was gone. The only thing that illuminated the night sky was the truck’s headlights carving a path through the inky gloom. What was worse, was that with two drivers, one could sleep while the other drove, keeping the truck moving 24-7. There was always a set of watchful eyes. It did not escape me either, that it didn’t sound like the man in the back was getting any sleep. There was much rustling of bodies and muffled grunts. While I could not understand the actual words that were being said, I got the feeling that the young woman in the back was not interested in the advances that were being foisted upon her. I stared out the windshield, trying to figure out how I could best help the poor girl.

Then a hand materialized on my leg.

I instantly pushed it away, but my hackles were now up and raised high. “Oh lord, how the hell was I going to get out of this truck?” my brain desperately demanded. The lascivious smile of the driver made me recoil and pull tighter into myself. This was not good. Not good at all. The girl in the back seemed to be doing an adequate job of keeping the second driver away from herself, but things were getting decidedly dangerous. It was dark out. We were literally miles from nowhere and our apparent saviours had turned into fiends that were attempting to extract their fare for passage in flesh.

Then the drivers switched places. And so did myself and my other hapless companion. Now she was in the front seat and I was on the bunk, but sleep was the farthest thing from my mind. I was young, white and vulnerable as a female traveler at the mercy of these strange men. As fingers began to crawl up my leg, I kicked and began to pray. My words felt hollow and useless in a foreign tongue, but I used them none the less.

“No!” I said. “Stop it!”

And yet they still kept coming. I kept insisting on being left alone, trying to make myself as small and inaccessible as possible. My brain found the image of God, and despite not having had much use for his omnipotent powers in the past, I now began to beg favours at a rapid pace. I beseeched his sense of fairness, good and integrity. My body was taut and tense with the strain of resistance and my willing of a positive energy to intervene. My tone became more strident, as I pleaded with higher powers to please release me from this state of strife. As one side of my brain grappled with images of worst case scenarios, I distinctly heard my mother warning me against talking to strangers and the bad things that could happen. “Please, please”, I begged. Let this not be the time when she would be right!

Gradually, my molester began to lose interest in the chase. Perhaps sleep got the better of him, or perhaps his soul realized that what he was attempting to do was the wrong thing. Whatever it was, that night my Guardian Angels earned their places in the Heavens for eternity. I wanted to cry, sob or scream, but my fight or flight response had me wired into a ball ready to attack if necessary. I occasionally felt a hand explore to see if perhaps I was asleep or had changed my mind, but a swift shove let him know that I was not up for a night of ‘fun’. Long after he turned over and curled up to go to sleep, I lay tightly in the corner of the bunk, my breath ragged in my chest. I no longer considered hitch-hiking to be the free and easy ride I once thought of it as. I somehow felt like I used up one of my lives that night. In the end, I never wanted it back. 

Keeping the Wheels Moving

***APOLOGIES: ***

As I began writing the next section of my tale, I realized that I made a mistake in my timeline (for those of you who have been regularly following my yarn). Oops! It looks like I have some editing to do! It will all get worked out in the final draft, but I leave you with the tale as it sits today. Tell me if you pick up on my glitch. 

~___*___~

The sun was shining. The road was smooth and ran long in front of us. Conversation flowed with an easy banter back and forth. Few awkward moments interrupted the journey. Today, I was hitching a ride with a big rig and life was good. The driver even bought me lunch, when we stopped about an hour into our journey. The memory of my previous drunken ride faded out behind me, as the kilometers clicked by on our way to the coast.

That is, until a worried look crossed the driver’s face. And then he started to gear down. In the uncertainty of what was going on, silence took over the cab. When the tires finally crunched onto the side of the road, we slowly came to a stop. It appeared that my blue skies were now marred by a nasty cloud that amounted to truck failings. In case you were wondering, when an AZ truck has mechanical problems, the driver is usually pretty much powerless to do much about it. More often than not, the drivers are not mechanics and the engines are a little awkward to manipulate. My driver was no different. Even if he knew what was wrong with the truck, he was unable to fix it. He was now stuck, until such time as a mechanic showed up on the scene. Despite the presence of a CB to call in a request for help, he would have to wait several hours before he would be mobile again. It appeared that it was time to switch rides again.

While the truck troubles were not his fault, my driver felt horrible about abandoning me on the side of the road. Perhaps he had forgotten that that was where he picked me up in the first place, but he now insisted that he help to get me another ride. He advised me that when the sun went down in the desert, the temperature would drop significantly. There were not that many hours left in the day and he bemoaned the idea of me stuck out in the cold after dark. I figured that he would not steer me wrong, so when he CBed the truck that was following him to stop and pick me up, I was grateful for his assistance. He had already done so much for me and now it looked like he would get me all the way to the coast, despite the inability of transporting me there personally. I also figured that this might prevent another drunk driver from careening me off of the side of the road, so agreed to his plan.

Within a short span, I was hauling my back pack down out of the first truck and loading it into a second one. This time there were two drivers, but at least another woman now joined me as a passenger in the truck. She gladly pushed her parcel up ahead of me and took a seat in the back of the cab on the long bunk with the second driver. I lucked into the passenger seat to share conversation with my newest driver of the day. By the time we were rolling again, there wasn’t much day left though. It was enough that I was moving West again though. 

On The Road

After driving through Rundu and Grootfontein, we ended up in Tsumeb, where I spent another night on the ground under chilly cloudless skies. My travelling companions were headed to Etosha to take in some game viewing, but I had had enough. While I would have loved to see Namibia’s premiere game reserve, I could not afford to continue with my new friends. My pennies were feeling pinched and the date on my airline ticket had me counting the days. So I bid adieu to my rag-taggle group, was charged for gas and rental fees while in their car, and departed from them N$122.50 lighter. At that rate, if I had continued with them, I would have been left in the middle of the game park to bunker down with the lions again! Egad!

So I struck out on my own again, this time with my thumb as my only travelling companion. It was a brand new day and my third in Namibia. It was about to get a little more exciting, but NOT in a way that I would have liked. In fact, it shaped up to be one of the scariest days that I endured throughout my whole  stay in Africa.

So after my rented ride roared off, with high spirits I plunked my backpack on the side of the road and stuck my thumb in the direction of passing vehicles. It didn’t take long before one of those motorists stopped. In hindsight, I wish he had not, but things happen for a reason and on that day, I climbed in with a gracious smile. For my efforts, a crooked smile was returned, before the driver aimed his car back onto the road. The word “aim” was the best description for what he was attempting. I quickly discovered that my driver was three sheets, or more, to the wind. He reeked of booze and swerved all over the road. Every time he talked to me, the car veered in the direction that his head was facing in. I was terrified. My smile turned from gratitude to horror, as I clutched at the door, bracing for impact with oncoming vehicles. I knew it was a miracle that the driver did not flip the car every time he grazed onto the gravel shoulders and manically thanked my guardian angels for every near miss. Their wings were fluttering like mad that day.

How I got out of the car, I have blocked from my memory, but suffice it to say that I did. I felt like I was down a life or two, but still had miles to go before I could call anyplace home. With a little more trepidation, I clung to the side of the road again, praying that my angels would forgive me my transgressions from months gone by. Cars zoomed by and I remained where I was. I was only half discouraged, as my last ride remained fresh in my mind.

The arrival of a young woman broke me from my train of thought. She appeared to be about my age, perhaps a little younger, maybe a little older. It was hard to tell and no common language could rectify that. She was obviously a local woman and travelled with a large bag, minus the live chickens that I had become accustomed to.  I remembered that I was in Namibia though, and life here was a little more progressive. While both of us were still hitchhiking, it was on a good paved road and lines even ran down the middle of it to define left from right. As it was obvious that we were going in the same direction, we both gravitated towards each other, despite our lack of verbal communication. A shy smile passed between us and that was enough to let us know that we were on the same path. So when a big rig applied his brakes and rolled to a stop, we both ran together to jump in for the next leg of our journeys. I prayed that this ride would prove to be less eventful.

Without A Kosher Passport

Dear Victoria Falls; home of temptation, excitement and over-indulgence to the extreme. I loved you with all that you represented, but had to say goodbye. My journey was winding down, as was the not-quite bottomless pit of money that was stashed in my money belt. It was definitely time to move on. At the last minute, I was graced by a visit with Max once more. As I hadn’t seen him, he convinced me to spend one more night, but this time with a roof over my head at his place. After three nights spent dozing in rough gravel, the warmth of his home was a welcome treat that I could not resist.

It was not to last though, as the fates offered me a ticket for travel again.  A highly orthodox Jewish couple and a vegetarian Seventh Day Adventist, who had just left his volunteer position in Rwanda, were heading into Namibia. That was the direction that I wanted to go in, so I stashed my rugged pack in the trunk of their car and climbed in with my newest travelling companions. Not to besmirch the gracious offer, but I have to say that this wandering posse was one of the stranger ones that I had hooked up with.  Far be it from me to snub anyone’s religions, but I wondered how easy it was to travel with the heavy restrictions that these young people had. I had found it difficult to find fresh water at times, let alone kosher food and carrying two sets of utensils to maintain kosher law. And while “God” is everywhere, how do you find any church, let alone your preferred church, temple, synagogue or mosque, when the only structures to be found for miles were often a collection of trees or dusty rondavels. I suppose God is in the heart though. My heathen ways would have had me bursting into flames if I tried to enter any holy buildings while I travelled anyway, so it was fine for me that they were few and far between.

With a quick backward glance, I now looked ahead to a new country though. We first had to cross through Botswana, a journey of only about half an hour, but this almost proved our undoing. While Eric and I handed over our passports with no problems, Israelis needed a visa to enter Botswana. This they did not have. What they did have though, was the car that we travelled in. The border guards threatened that they would have to go back to Lusaka or Harare to obtain proper paperwork, which would have either meant a delay in my travels, or me suddenly hoofing it from the border onwards. Neither option appealed to any of us.

After much negotiation, their passports were finally stamped and we were on our way again, next stop Namibia. This border crossing was much easier and suddenly, I had a brand new stamp to admire in my passport. I had already travelled through nine African countries. This was now my tenth and last new country to explore. The road ahead was gravel, and although dusty, a fairly decent one to traverse. We were headed across the thin Caprivi Strip, before falling into the rest of the country. Popa Falls would be the first place for me to lay my head in Namibia, and lying on the chilly ground once more, the Namibian stars were beautiful to behold.