The Trip Home

The last of my days in Africa slipped through my fingers. We returned to Cape Town and I managed to sneak in a few more visits here and there. I visited with my cousin Greg, went out to my aunt’s house for a last cup of tea with her and enjoyed a final braai with my uncle’s clan. It was heart-wrenching to let go of the continent, that I felt like I was just beginning to get to know, but it was also time. I had been gone for ten months and my homeland called to me. I longed to see my mother’s face, to feel my sister’s hug and to hear my friend’s excited banter. To know that this new continent that I had come to love would be so far away in a matter of days was bewildering, but acceptance tamed my qualms. It had to.

A phone call arranged a layover in Germany to visit with an old dear friend on my return flight. I would have a week to decompress and adjust to life away from Africa, before winging back to Canadian shores. It all felt so lacklustre, but I tried to muster up a little excitement at the prospect of seeing a long-lost friend and catching up on her life and times. I wondered though, how I would process stepping onto European soil after my earthy African adventures that spanned the southern half of the continent. Europe would be like a different world. Of course Canada would be an adjustment all over again the week later.

For now though, I tried to imprint every image, taste, feel and smell of this land that had gotten under my skin. The concept of leaving was akin to abandoning a homeland that I dearly loved and feared I would never see again. Africa was home to my soul and I ached at the thought of leaving. The fates refused to give me reason to stay though and I begrudgingly packed the last of my things, adding last minute trinkets to my battered backpack to keep Africa close forever.

On August 29^th the last full moon arose to wish me adieu to the continent of my dreams. The following day, I drove to the airport with kin that would forever hold a piece of my heart. With a few strings pulled, I was upgraded to the luxury of Business Class and slid into the ample seat with a sad sigh. A flight attendant materialized with a champagne glass topped off with orange juice and a smile. I peered out the window of the plane, tipped my glass to Table Mountain and let a tear slide down my cheek in farewell. I was going home, but leaving a heart-space behind. All the moments that I had lived in this amazing continent seared into my brain as the jumbo jet lifted off the ground. Just like my first flight, there would be no sleep on the return journey. With aching soul, I left a piece of me behind, but more importantly, took a bigger piece of Africa with me. It would always be, and continues to this day, to be a part of my heart. 

Looking North

“The spring flowers are a sight to behold,” promised my uncle.

He didn’t have to sell me on one last excursion though. The suggestion alone was all that was required to convince me, and with that I was travelling again. This time, I was in the back seat of my aunt and uncle’s car though and we were headed to Springbok to stay with my cousins for a few days. I would not have to carry my pack, nor stand at the side of the road in hopes that a ride would soon materialize. And I certainly did not have to worry about anyone’s hands or where they tried to put them. That was an adventure much more to my liking.

Namaqualand was well worth the drive as well. Just as my uncle had promised, the desert had blossomed into a multi-coloured patchwork of blooms. Orange, purple, yellow and white flowers filled the eye, as far as one could see. We wandered up on the dusty hillside behind Anne and Pieter’s house, but the trip to Namaqua National Park blew me away. Everywhere I looked, the daisies turned their pretty faces to the sun and I was in awe. The normal brown and dusty green shoots that struggled to exist during the rest of the year, exploded into a brief, brilliant rainbow after winter rains gave them a fleeting taste of life. Just as quickly though, those blossoms would be gone, burned away by the hot South African summer sun. During those few days in August, I was blessed to behold the desert miracle of life for its season of rebirth and renewal. The pictures I snapped were flat compared to the beauty I was surrounded by. I took them anyway though.

One prickly plant drew my eye in the midst of the blanketed foliage. Where most of the other plants were tucked close to the ground, Pachypodium namaquanum stood tall, if not quite erect. When I asked my uncle about the curious cacti, he gave one of his hearty laughs and launched into a tale of folklore about it.

“Do you see the bend at the top of it,” he asked.

“Of course, but what of it,” I wondered.

“So the story goes, a local tribe was being driven South by another bloodthirsty tribe. Attacked and suffering in numbers, they retreated from their homeland and made their way towards the Richtersveld mountain desert. In grief, a few of their numbers turned back to gaze North towards their former homeland. The Gods felt sorry for these poor folks and turned them into halfmens, the plants you see there. In that way, they could always gaze towards their homeland and find some small comfort in the view,” he explained. “The halfmens always grow with their tips bending north.”

I listened to his tale and stared at the tree. It was a delightfully sad tale and one that resonated with me, as I gazed North towards my own homeland. The picture taken that day will stay with me forever.

A Lifetime

I signed back into Bob’s and was greeted by Terry’s familiar face. “You have returned,” he exclaimed. Yup, I made it. I was back in downtown Cape Town for a last foray around the city, before heading to the suburbs and my aunt and uncle’s house. It was nice to step into a familiar place again and be welcomed by a known face.

“You’ve put on weight,” Terry continued. “It looks good.” His eyes dipped briefly to the most obvious spot that the aforementioned weight had landed. Yes, my thread-bare bra was now stretched to the max.

“Yeah right,” I thought, but could not deny it. My chubby cheeks and straining pants were a tell-tale sign that not everyone is starving in Africa. The many days and nights spent in the passenger seat of a travelling truck had taken their toll. Not to mention all the food that I had scarfed along route. In fact, before hitting the hostel, I had stopped for breakfast at Nino’s. I decided that I deserved to splurge on breakfast after surviving the questionable transportation I had endured over the last month. A R20 English breakfast was no match for this eating machine and my servers were thoroughly impressed. The only thing left was a mere croissant, which I slipped into my bag to save for later. The lady can eat folks!

I made a mental note to cut back on the carbs when I finally hit Canadian soil again. And yes, a little exercise might not hurt either, especially after watching the arm on the scale swing wildly back and forth under my tread. Even with my shoddy conversion of kilograms into pounds, I was shocked to note that I was the heaviest I had ever been in my life. No wonder all I wore was my stretchy peasant skirt! Could I really have ballooned up to 70 kg? It was definitely time for some exercise.

With that in mind, I stowed my pack and headed out to walk around the city. Over the days that followed, I wandered through art galleries, perused the Cape Town Museum in a downpour, did some last minute shopping on my limited budget and even managed to hook up with my cousin Greg to say hello. I desperately tried to cram in as much culture as I could in my remaining hours. 

Now that the days were numbered though, the hours flew by. I realized that I would not make it to the top of Table Mountain, nor out to wander around Robben Island. There was time enough to visit with relatives, and as that was the reason why I came to South Africa in the first place, I returned to the arms of my kin. Indeed, when I returned to Brackenfell, my father’s brother greeted me with all the warmth he possessed, as if we had known each other my whole life, versus the short few months that I had been on the African continent.

In the grand scheme of things though, I suppose that my life in Africa was a lifetime in and of itself. 

Dark Passenger

The dark stole over us all of a sudden like, as seemed to be the way in Africa. Springbok lay behind us, but Cape Town was still a long way to go. I was committed now. There was no turning back and the night made sure of that. The highway was no place for idle hitchhikers after dark, so for better or worse, I was Mango’s passenger for the night.

When dinner became a memory and eyes fought for purchase to stay open, I began to release the day. I was not the only one who fought a battle with sleep though. I tried to chat with Mango to keep us both awake, but conversation gradually ceased and we drove along in silence. Reflective tape flashed towards us in the dark. My eyelids bobbed under the mesmerizing display, dangerously close to staying shut, until Mango’s voice jarred me awake.

“I am going to stop,” he announced. "I need to sleep."

“You’re the boss,” I thought, as I nodded in agreement. The truck geared down and eased to the side of the road for a much needed break for both of us.

We were in the middle of nowhere. No lights twinkled in the distance, near or far, that I could see. While there could have been people hidden in the depths of the dark, essentially we were alone.

“Do you want to join me,” Mango half-heartedly suggested. “No charge for the ride?”

This is what I had been dreading and hoping against hope would not happen. I was instantly awake and tense.

“No,” I stated

“Sure?” he pushed, but I shook my head emphatically. He waited a second and then lay down. He flipped over with his back to me, apparently unconcerned by my rejection. I remained rigid in the passenger seat. Long after Mango slept, I listened for his even breathing, to assure me that I too was safe to snooze. Needless to say, it was not a sound sleep that night.

Before morning light, we were rolling along again. The sky outside my window was steely gray and rain broke on the windshield as we drove. My eyes were dry and gritty from having slept in my contact lenses, but Cape Town approached. After spending almost 24 hours in the truck with Mango, he geared down once again. Where the N1 and N7 intersected, I lit from the truck into the pouring rain. I thanked him for the ride, gave him the promised money and watched him drive away.

Within minutes two lovely ladies stopped to scoop me out of the downpour. Next stop: downtown Cape Town. After 9 ½ months of meandering here and there between Cape Town and Lamu, my travelling days were finally at an end.  

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. 

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. 

A Change in Plans

Mini Rock Hoppers

I realize that it is Monday. I should have jetted off to Africa to continue my saga. I have left you hanging, as I climbed up into the cab of another truck. What happened next? Well... I feel bad about it, but you are going to have to wait a little longer to see. It can't be helped. I spent almost four hours driving home from my sister's house (in what should have been a two-hour drive). I am still sluggish with tryptophan from the turkey, plus from chasing those four delightful kids you see up there around. So I am pooped and am going to bed.

I apologize, but thought perhaps I would share a video from a band that I am going to be going to see this coming weekend with Me. Haven't seen a concert in a while and I am stoked! So here is a little Iron & Wine for you to enjoy. I will have to get some writing done later, but right now its bedtime. Happy Thanksgiving Canada! Happy Columbus Day US!

Hello pillows. I hear you calling! I am on my way...

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. 

Long Lost Friends

With money in hand, it was time to celebrate. First stop, grocery shopping.  I needed some staples in my depleted backpacking larder. With cheese, bread and cucumbers, I couldn’t go wrong. On my way into the store though, I bumped into Glenn. I hadn’t seen him since I left Harare, so we chatted for a few minutes to catch up. 

After leaving the store with my purchases, I headed back to the campsite to drop off my fresh wares. Lo and behold, but didn’t I bump into some other old familiar faces! Craig and Nina were full of smiles to see me again. While I remembered them, it took a minute to remember where I had met them before. In fact it was right here in Victoria Falls last March, when Miki and I had gone canoeing. We happily recounted stories of what we each had been up to since last we met. While my wanders were an exciting tale to share, theirs were even better. They had just gotten married! The happy couple had found a most romantic spot on a small island in Lake Tanganyika, Tanzania and tied the knot with a small gathering of friends and family to witness their nuptials. Ten people were plenty at their intimate gathering and now they were on honeymoon backpacking through Africa. They even had Nina’s parents backpacking with them, which impressed me thoroughly for their fortitude.

We parted ways and I continued on with my day. I was in for yet another surprise though. As I walked down the stairs in the plaza, another familiar face caught my eye. Again I could not place it, but sure enough I did know this stranger. And who was this new person, but Barbara. Her husband Jap joined us and soon the three of us were excitedly chatting away in the middle of the street. Where do you suppose I had previously met these good folks, you wonder? It wasn’t Victoria Falls, Tanzania or even Africa for that matter. I had stayed at Barbara and Jap’s house in Enschede, Netherlands 2 ½ years before that. They were cousins of the ex-boyfriend of my travelling companion at the time, when I had backpacked through Europe. Complicated, but the short story was that Barbara and Jap had allowed their house to be my home base for a few days, while I poked about the Netherlands.

The middle of the street was not a great place to update each other on all that had passed though, so we agreed to go for a beer at the camp bar. As we laughed and joked about seeing each other in such a remote place, Nina and Craig, plus their parents, materialized and joined us. Soon enough the beers had flowed to make us all a little giddy. When some local entertainers took to the stage (or rather a clear space on one side of the patio), we had another round of beers, while we watched them sing and dance. I talked, laughed and had a marvelous evening, such as I hadn’t in what seemed like ages. I was amongst friends and it felt good. I had even seen Ndaba and Keith earlier in my wanders. They of course were easier to place, as they lived and worked in Victoria Falls. I had met them on previous excursions while white water rafting. I had yet to bump into Max, whom I had a soft spot for, as he had been my first white water rafting guide way back in December. Regardless, I was in my glory with so many familiar faces around me.

At the end of the night, I wobbled home to my sleeping bag on the ground underneath a tree. It was far from a luxury, but it felt like coming home none the less. A smile played across my face, as I drifted off to another night’s sleep in Zimbabwe. 

None of the Comforts of Home

I stretched my stiff and aching body. I had slept in some pretty rough places during my travels, but last night’s nest on the ground was certainly one of the least comfortable places that I could recall retiring to. My thin orange sleeping bag added little comfort from the rocks, roots and rivets that served as my bed. The view held little to be desired either – a chain link fence topped with barbed wire, the dusty ground with a few sparse patches of grass here and there, and the rare tree for shade. I had managed to secure a spot underneath one of those trees to shelter me from the morning sun’s glare, but I still awoke shortly after dawn. I hadn’t slept much anyway. And while there certainly were none of the comforts of home here, I managed to retain a smile. I was in Victoria Falls. I had made it to Zimbabwe. Despite my lack of creature comforts, it felt like coming home.

Before crawling out of my cocoon to face the day, I reflected on some of the pleasant memories that I held of Victoria Falls. On my first trip here, I fell in love with the adventure sport of white water rafting. With the gang from my first overland trip, we had also explored the beautiful, misty park that surrounded the top of the gorge, watched friends plummet towards the water on bungi cords and tipped a few beverages on a booze cruise. That was followed by my canoe trip along the Upper Zambezi with Miki back in March. We had paddled along the river with not a care in the world, and been pampered with soft beds and mosquito nets after our outdoor showers to wash the toils of the day off our bodies. Once Brett and Oliver joined us, we also partook in a booze cruise of our own that had us all reeling the following day. On my last trip through, I again arrived with an overland company, but this time as part of the crew. I was treated to another white water rafting trip and of course the obligatory booze cruise that were a staple of all those trips. Alcohol seemed to play a factor in the fun, but that did not seem so bad from the security of my retro-wrapped bed.

This visit to Victoria Falls was different though. I wasn’t with an overland truck, neither as a passenger nor working. I had no friends by my side. I had parted ways with Eddie the night before, so no longer even had his company or guidance to lead the way. In fact, after walking away from his land cruiser on the bridge from Zambia to Zimbabwe, I had a moment of panic at being solely responsible for my own actions once again. I was the only one to guide the way and was fearful of the path that might unfold. Thankfully, the morning sun burned some of those trepidations away.

“First things first,” I thought, as I scrambled out of my sleeping bag and made my way to the bath house. My present abode didn’t offer much, but at least the campground’s bathroom was reasonably clean. The other perk was that they would safely store my backpack, while I wandered around town for the day. That was a bonus that would at least help to save a few more knots in my grateful back.

I rolled up my “home”, strapped it on top of my pack and headed out to start my day. Once my pack was safely stowed, I crossed my fingers and headed to the bank machine that I had been urgently seeking since Tanzania. I was down to little more than dust in my ravaged money pouch, as I had been forced to break my last traveller’s cheque in order to pay Eddie for the food I had shared en route from Dar es Salaam to Livingstone. I did not begrudge him the money in the least, but was at desperation’s door now. The remaining Rand that I held didn’t amount to enough to get me to Cape Town. I couldn’t think about that now though. 

Not daring to wonder what I would do if my card got rejected again, I slid the card in, punched in some numbers and held my breath. There was what seemed like a painfully long wait, as the machine processed my request. The sweet sound of gears grinding finally released me from the tension that had threatened to overwhelm me, as money slowly slid out into my waiting hands.

It worked! I had money again! I could access my account and in turn, continue to travel. Even better,  I could afford breakfast!

Flies, Fishermen and Flights of Fancy

The days flew by, as dust wafted behind the land cruiser on our way South. A smile curved my lips when we reached the brilliant coast of Lake Malawi again. Oh, how I loved its azure shores. One day Eddie pointed out a dark cloud across the lake. It looked like smoke, but Eddie shook his head no. The hazy cloud that drifted on the horizon was in fact lake flies. Catherine and John had never seen them before, but Eddie remarked that they were edible and considered a delicacy by the locals when they swarmed across the lake. They caught them by the handfuls and squished them into balls, then fried them up into "delicious" fly cakes. As we were not there at the right time of year, we would not get the pleasure of trying them. Eddie assured us that we were not missing anything. He had tried them before and wasn’t impressed. As I had tried the other Malawian treat of grasshoppers and hadn’t been a fan, I didn’t rue our timing all that much. I guess protein is protein though, when it is scarce to come by. I just preferred the view.

The lapping waves were a welcome companion, as I curled up on the beach at night as well. With the flies located across the lake and no mosquitoes to bug me, I could look up at the pristine, star-lit sky in awe. It was also a treat to watch fishermen stringing their nets out in the moon’s glow in hopes of catching a meal for the next day. The long row of lights that represented each fisherman along the net, painted a line of humanity in my mind’s dark eye. I was mesmerized and fell in love with Malawi all over again.

Before I knew it though, the lake was behind us and I was let out at Annie’s Guest House, in Lilongwe, for the night. I was amongst backpackers again and enjoyed the camaraderie, for an evening at least. Stories were swapped and chocolate was shared. Our laughter was only good until noon though and then I met back up with Eddie to head off for the next leg of our journey.

After jumping into the land cruiser again, we journeyed on across the continent. We stopped in Chipata, then made our way across Zambia to Lusaka. Conversation lulled and was wan, at best. In bursts of discordant chatter, I spoke of my plans for the rest of my travels. Eddie nodded politely, while he drove across the dry terrain dotted with rondavels. When I said that I was thinking of heading back towards Harare, then south again to Cape Town, he suggested an alternate route.

“Why not cut across at Kasane and travel south down Namibia for somewhere you haven’t been before?” he said.

Why not indeed. And with that, plans changed again. I silently wished goodbye to my erstwhile friends in Harare and opened the door to adventure in new lands, as yet unexplored. I still had a ways to go before I could be introduced to this new country for me, but a twinge of excitement filled me again. I fell silent thinking about all the places I had been and people that I had met, but was still present enough to wave at the villagers that we passed who eagerly lifted their hands in greeting. Their enthusiasm still brought a smile to my lips, even after nine months on the road. While Lusaka neared on the road we travelled, my own trail grew as my mind drifted along on a new flight of fancy.  

The View Out the Window

I watched the world fly by through the window of Eddie’s land cruiser now. I was headed south, re-tracing my steps back to South Africa, and eventually home. Today’s stop was in Karonga, Malawi where we picked up supplies. Eddie and John went shopping, while the other John and Catherine got out to stretch their legs and browse around Karonga. I stayed back in the land cruiser to scribble a few words in my journal and process where I was at. As there was no money in my wallet to spend anyway, it made more sense to stay put and hence keep out of trouble.

Gladly, trouble seemed to be skirting my world for the moment. Neale was long gone and Nimesh was a friend that I could hold in my heart, if not close enough to offer a personal hug in my arms. I reflected on the other friends that I had met on my journey. Dear Brett had been an excellent travelling companion, bar none. Miki had been the surprise ghost from my past, that had set me off on a path of adventure that I surely would not have stumbled upon on my own. The family that I was lucky to have been rekindled with had filled me full of a heart-song that I had never known and would cherish the rest of my days. There were many others too, like Ian, my erstwhile man in Harare, Stuart and Rob, my house mates in Lamu, Oliver and Taro, other faces that graced us with their presence in our van Arnie. The list went on and on. As I sat alone in the land cruiser though, I felt slightly hollow realizing that it was all coming to a close. While I might yet get a chance to see Max, Keith and Ndaba in Victoria Falls when I arrived, I just as easily might not.  At this rate, who was to know?

All I knew for certain, was that I was very lucky to have picked up the ride with Eddie at the helm of his “Tusker” fleet. He came to me at a point when I needed a sign. His offer was surely the most glaring sign I could have asked for. When I was not sure which way to go, he gently led me to the path home. And at that moment, when I looked up and saw him ambling towards the land cruiser, I knew that it was meant to be. In a week’s time, 1500 kilometers would pass under the vehicle's wheels. That was a lot of time to think about the days past and the days to come, but for now I scrambled to offer whatever help I could before we hit the road again. Repacking done, I wedged my growing backside back into the seat and picked up my view out the window again. Livingstone, ho!

A Twist of Fate

Excitement got the best of us in the morning. There were no long snuggles for Neale and I, as we were in search of plane tickets today. Cairo waited for us and Israel beckoned to be explored as well. Cairo was just the tip of the ice berg. We could see the world, but today it started with a trip to the travel agent.

Actually, it started with a phone book - to figure out where to locate a travel agency. Once that was accomplished, Neale and I dressed and headed out. I felt like a giddy school girl arranging to skip class, but far too excited to stop and think about the consequences. We would fly to Cairo and explore from there. I had always wanted to see the pyramids of Giza and the Great Sphinx, as well as wander through the busy bazaars. It was coming to fruitition  and I could barely contain myself. We would be stepping onto a plane heading North in a matter of days, if not hours!

Across town, we sat in front of a pleasant looking young woman and explained to her that we wanted to go to Egypt. Ideally, we wanted to leave as soon as possible, but realistically, the cheapest ticket would dictate when we left. She poured through time tables and looked at price tags, then turned to us with a smile.

“Would tomorrow do?” she inquired.

“Oh yes,” was our response.

She started tapping in my particulars first. I pushed my passport across the desk and squeezed Neale’s hand. We would be headed for Cairo tomorrow! A measly six hour flight would touch us down in a whole new country, as well as a new hemisphere in Africa for me. It was over 4000 kilometers, and I had no idea how I would be able to get back to Cape Town (where my plane ticket back to Canada departed from), but here I was stating my name and birth date.  

Tap, tap, tap…

“And how would you like to pay?” she finally asked.

I dug for my credit card and pushed it across the desk to her. The tapping stopping, then she punched more numbers into the credit card machine.

“There appears to be a problem with your credit card,” the travel agent said as politely as she could.

What the…?

“What do you mean,” I asked.

She tried the numbers again, but shook her head. She handed me the machine, so that I could see the explanation.

“CONTACT CREDIT CARD COMPANY,” it read.

Oh, oh. This wasn't part of the plan. 

Step number two was to pick up the phone to see what was going on. The travel agent dialed the  phone number that was displayed on her machine, spoke to the representative, then handed me the phone. After a round of identification questions, a handful more questions, plus some of my own, the answer was presented to me – INSUFFICIENT FUNDS.

Our plans rapidly started to unravel. My credit card was at its limit. I could not use my debit card in Tanzania and I only had a $50 US traveller’s cheque left, as well as small amounts of currency from the last half dozen countries that I had been in. Essentially, I was broke.

Neale rallied to the cause. He pulled out his credit card and offered to pay for both our tickets. I knew that once I got a hold of my mother back home, I could sort out my finances and pay him back. That shouldn’t take too long, I reasoned. The money would be back in his pocket in no time.

Fate had other plans though. Our beleaguered travel agent shook her head once more and announced that Neale’s credit card had also been denied. We were both flat broke. We could not afford even one ticket to Cairo between the two of us, let alone tickets for both of us to go. After several more phone calls and other desperate measures, we dejectedly walked out of the travel agency empty handed. Our dreams of Cairo fizzled out miserably. We were not going anywhere.

Leaving on a Jet Plane

Neale and I were constant companions over the days that followed. After spending a second night in his larger room, I decided to pass on keeping up appearances and moved in with him. There was no point in us both paying for rooms, if we were only going to use one. You couldn’t separate us if you tried. We wandered city streets, chatting, laughing, holding hands and finding quiet corners to share a passionate kiss or two. We met back up with Nimesh for a personalized tour of the city as well. Neither Neale nor I had much cash flowing out of our pockets, but that did not dampen our euphoric spirits. Burgeoning love feeds the soul.

The problem was that the more time Neale and I spent together, the less we wanted to be separated. While in Dar es Salaam that wasn’t a problem, but neither of us had the money to stay put and the city was quickly losing its appeal. We were both travellers and our feet itched to move on. Neale was headed North. After my failed attempt at being an overland courier, I was still drifting and sought direction for which way to go next. I felt like home was vaguely calling my name, but Africa was in my blood and I loathed the idea of leaving it. Temptation arose and I had no good reasons to turn it down. Neale’s hearty laugh and generous compliments had me in favour of pretty much anything that he suggested. So when the proposal came to accompany him to Cairo, it took me all of two seconds to agree.

While I did get excited at the prospect of seeing Egypt, a few worries couldn't help but cross my mind. Was it really a good idea to be traipsing across the continent with a virtual stranger? Hmm. Well, I had been doing that for the last nine months with a steady stream of strangers, many of whom I knew even less than Neale. So that could be crossed off the list of worries easily enough. If we went to Egypt together though, how and when would I get back to Cape Town, or Canada for that matter? Seeing the excitement in Neale’s eyes erased any doubts that my brain tried to muster though. I was present in the miracle of the moment. I had travelled long enough to trust my instincts when the fates presented new opportunities to me. If it felt right, then it was meant to be. The idea of this potential trip excited me and definitely screamed as an opportunity to be taken advantage of. How could I not jump on board? Neale's enthusiasm was contagious and it was decided.

All that stood in the way, was the means to get there. So over a cheap beer in our favourite pub, we decided  that we would leave for Cairo as soon as we could muster up some plane tickets. Giddy with anticipation, we finished our pitcher and wandered home arm in arm for the night. The plan was to find a travel agent in the morning and leave on a jet plane to Cairo, as soon as we were able.