Jessie Goes….

Nothing, and I mean nothing, beats sitting on a rocky cliff overlooking an ocean whose color and clarity is stunning, with a cocktail in hand as its effects slowly trickle through your system!

Its like a rip of a sheet of paper that I have to pick up from here within the hour knowing I will shortly be hanging out in Houston International Airport.

I honestly could sit here all day and write away in my little notebook. Why this is happening now on my last minutes to take advantage is a good question. Maybe Gauguin and Hemmingway experienced this and its why they never left their islandy paradises. The sound of the crashing see-through blue waves does something to me.

Yesterday, after waking up at a leisurely 10am I wandered into the ‘real’ Cancun and away from my little wave crashing oasis, to see a little something more of the way the people who live here actually live. The Isle of Cancun was born as a result of a 1967 feasibility study by the Mexican government and a local bank. When ground was broken in 1970 the island had 3 residents, and Cancun City, where I’m heading today on the local bus, didn’t exist at all. After the government financed the first several hotels, the rest was history, and now Cancun City has 600,000 people whose livings revolve completely and totally on the tourist trade of the Mexican Riviera.

The local bus runs nearly continuously. I jumped on one with my 6.5 pesos and sat down within 3 minutes of getting onto the main (only) road in the tourist zone. I wasn’t exactly sure where to get off in Cancun City, of course, so when we got to somewhere in there I just yelled stop in Spanish, and jumped off.

As is nearly always the case as a single woman, I got my spidey senses out, and looked about suspiciously as I wandered down the street, the only tourist in sight. On first entrance to the city it looked on the dirty, polluted, commercial zone side. Its funny, I often think that as a first sight in many cities. I liken it to being a NYer and staring in wonder when a tourist relates to you ‘how filthy dirty’ the city is. Huh? NYC? What dirt? What bag-ladies? After a while you just edit out those parts and see only the cool stuff beyond. It is part of the urban mystique. Well, its the same thing here, my first 15 minutes of wandering made me wonder if I might as well get back on the next bus I saw before I wandered into an area less trafficked and less safe.

Instead I took a propitious left, to a much more pedestrian street. I have noticed in many a central and south american town that pedestrian street and high speed highway aren’t mutual exclusive. You have sidewalk bars running right up to hordes of honking speeding traffic with people sprinting across 4 or 5 lanes to make it to the other side. I saw some gringo establishments, a hostel here, a hostel there, and that meant maragritas were around. After walking up and down for another 30 or 40 minutes, making sure I kept my internal compass knowing where the main highway outta this burg was, I finally settled on a cute place serving up lunch.

In spanish I did my best with help from pointing, to order just a side or rice and beans, and a margarita. Within minutes my little waitress shows up WITH TWO of these strong enough to kill you drinks.

“No No! I meant just one margarita!” I said in English, all pretext of cultural respectfulness to the wind.

She smiled and pointed to a small line on the top of the menu which said 2X1. So, I order one. I get two. Apparently AT ONCE. One for each hand. Not only were people staring at me because I was this lily white blonde girl alone in Cancun City, but I was so alone that I pretended to order a drink for my invisible partner. Ah well, I wasn’t in any rush!

As the tequila did its magic, my spidey senses dulled just enough for me to start to notice the details through the dirt. First I think there are a lot of americano gringo’s living the highlife here in cancun. 40ish men driving old volkswagon versions you only see outside of the US, with their little tan blonde families, speaking spanish and throwing around that flipflops and panama hat wearing familiarness that reminds me of Jane Goodall in the jungle or Dr. Livingstone in the bush-only he had a pith helmet.

Second I start noticing Latina girls in their full glory, with their hair done up, lipstick applied and stiletto heels clicking down the street, looking like any Manhattanite might, just with a vastly different backdrop. The traffic is still whizzing by, and a young man in a blue junker yells out to her, in that time worn ritual of how to disgust a girl in less than 10 seconds. In any language.

My walk back, down the same streets I had come down on, was much more colorful too… I peeked into the bank with the line out of the door, I took a spin through the grocery store, and I walked down numerous of the side alleys, none of which held the slightest bit of menace any longer, now that the dirt was invisible. People stared at me and I smiled, they smiled.

Last night, I slept with my balcony doors wide open to the ocean, to my maids horrification no doubt – she has twice told me “no safe”… but falling asleep this way is….aaaaahhhhhhhh.

Though I doubt I’ll come back to Cancun specifically, lets face it, I’m not the wet t-shirt type of party girl, I will no doubt come back to coastal Mexico, and I will not wait another 13 years! There is something to this living life in flipflops! Hasta Luego!

Can you imagine traveling to a new place as did the explorers to the New World..? expecting maybe a tribe of natives and stumbling upon a city of 100k people with agriculture, aquaculture and architecture to rival ones own civilization? I mean really… stop and think about how world altering this must have been. How humbling and frightening really. How many more of these foreigners were there after all?

This day and age we feel unbelievably intrepid when we have ventured far enough to encounter “primitive societies”, be they bands of desert nomads keeping alive ancient traditions in the Sahara, jungle tribes without electricity, etc. Shoot, anyone without an Ipod seems double-blink worthy. These cultures are viewed as industrially, technologically, and sometimes even theologically antiquated. As if time and god has forgotten these people, we surmise in our most self-aggrandized views. Or perhaps instead these few have escaped the “evils of modern life” as we put on our well worn hats of patronization. Pat pat pat. cute little culture. No ipods. heh heh. heh. 

But not the same for these guys back during the early age of colonization. Regardless of how our society currently views the cultures that are off the grid, early European explorers to the new world when on their merry way, sailing the seas, hacking through jungle, and yes eyes always keen and hopeful for gold… when lo and behold, they came upon these civilizations where the cities were cities, surrounded by small towns, places of worship, with cultures pervasive over large amounts of land.Cortez and his men for instance, upon discovery of Mexico City, found massive infrastructure, buildings and architecture, canals for transport rivaling Venice, advanced science rivaling Italian and Greek thinkers, accurate calendars and maps, a written language, and a population that rivaled the largest cities on Earth at the time. Holy Crap indeed! It was hard to call these guys cute little cultures, or really think of colonization with the scurvy ridden ranks at hand. Thank god for smallpox though, right?

Standing here at Chichen Itza, a town thriving about 1000 years ago, I can’t help but thinking about those explorers that wiped out the civilizations through disease and slavery, and wiped out much of what they could have added to the world. This is a pretty large complex afterall, the part that we can see that has been reclaimed from the jungle brush. And this wasn’t the half of it, nor nearly the largest city. They were spread all over the yucatan peninsula… and farther… to belize, to honduras, and to Guatemala. Technically, it is believed that the Mayan culture actually started in Guatemala and moved outward. The point is, this was a huge civilization who pretty much up and disappeared in a quick fashion. And no, it wasn’t aliens.

My mind tends to extrapolate these facts forward… will one day some modern culture be visiting the ruins of the Empire State building and Grand Central Station on a tour pod?

Back to the basics here, Chichen Itza is about a 3 hour bus ride from your hotel in Cancun, and well worth it, though it will take the entire day, 7am to 7pm. The Mayans were pyramid builders and though not nearly as big or impressive as anything you’d find in Egypt as far as sheer magnitude, the precision and complexity of the buildings suggest the same exact advanced knowledge of geometry and astronomy. Things are aligned. A large difference in these pyramids is that they weren’t burial zones per se. They were about the afterlife, but they were more about the journey. Underneath each of these structures was a cave that generally had a cenote (waterfilled cave system, eventually emptying into the ocean, sometimes hundreds of miles away. The only place in the world with these cenotes is in this part of Mexico.) The idea of the Mayan afterlife system was that when you died, you went into the cave and floated around in there sucked through the tunnels until you reached the point where the fresh water mixed with the salt water… this was the cross-over point. Interesting right?

Now how these Mayans knew that this entire cave system existed is amazing, afterall, modern day divers with all the modern equipment have labeled the area extremely dangerous for dives as the system is vast, dark, cold, cavernous and easy to get lost in. Many many very experienced divers have died attempting to navigated these systems. Yet these Mayans pretty much had it right on, and were quite obsessed with it. They offered human and object sacrifices reasonably regularly, all of whom were plunged down into one or another of these watery graves. The sacrificees went willingly enough, as in this culture, as well as the Egyptians before them, they felt that their life on Earth was just a speck of a long and definitive afterlife. They weren’t just going into the light. They had some major plans. Those that were given to the gods were only of noble upper class blood, as it was an amazing honor.

Local lore has it that the culture vanished in an abrupt fashion, like poof. Gone. I am skeptical of this, and if I was a betting women, I can definitely imagine that European diseases probably did a good job of clearing the way, similar to its devastating effects in the Caribbean and the eastern coast of the US. Just a guess though. That and some mystical record keeping and you’ve got a pretty good theory to me. Who knows though. Maybe that fourth Indiana Jones movie had it right, and when we aren’t looking those pyramid convert to time space vortex yielding starships. Could be. I guess.

Eh, long time no? It has been, since I’ve been traveling anywhere but between Tampa, NYC, Charleston and my parents houses. But no longer, boy do I have some travel planned!

And speaking of long times…. the sudden once a decade frost bite that has bitten the deep south this January has run me out. I couldn’t take it anymore, and last Wednesday I did some internet desperation searching and came up with a next to nothing trip to Cancun. Mexico. Land of wet t-shirts, margarita’s and college aged stupidity.The last time I was in Cancun it was 1995. Yes, I was 21 year old, as well I should have been. I am definitely aiming for Girls Gone Mild this go around though. (sorry – my alcohol limit has really taken a disastrous turn south since 30)

Cancun is different since my visit last century.First, the ‘other side of the road’ is now one continuous shopping mall. There’s a Chili’s, and Outback Steakhouse, and a Walmart on the way to my hotel. But thats to be sort of expected, us American’s seemingly can’t live without some version of a mall around us. The real change is the beach. Where once lay the prettiest stretch of baby white and powder-fine sand anywhere has been hurricaned away. Some of the hotel fronts sit on craggy bits of limestone rocks. It has its own beauty, don’t get me wrong, and the water color is still out of this world, but it is a far cry in comparison to pre-hurricane Wilma. Some sand has been shipped in, sort of white, sort of fine (reminds me of St. Pete, FL) but it’s a far cry. That said, if you hadn’t been here 2004 or before, you’d still think its an amazing stretch of Ocean. Vegas style.

Oh, and of course, one more thing… I got a 4 star hotel room for less than 100 bucks 36 hours before I got here. And, now that I’m here I see the reason. There is (relatively) nobody here! No heads in the beds! Its shocking. Economic Crisis 1, Cancun, 0, USA 0, World 0. That said, aside from the obnoxiously in love couple I can hear through the connecting doors to my room, having the place to myself isn’t all that bad! I have a perfect balcony overlooking a surprisingly rough turquoise and velvet Carribean Sea. The breeze as I sit here and steal internet is blowing my little sheer curtains into the room like some sort of commercial. Cecilia (Paul Simon) is drifting on the breeze from the pool area, which I left an hour ago after causing myself enough skin damage and margarita damage for one afternoon.

Nap time… and then go out to see the superbowl… hopefully channeling some Party like its 1999 in the Mexican Rivera. Okay Party like I was the age I was when it was 1999.

Still entralled with my cloistered lifestyle behind the palace walls, I woke up this morning to utter luxury and to breakfast in bed, still sore from whitewater rafting in what seemed to be a world away.

I had questions.

They were the first questions I asked my driver when I got in for my day tour of Johannesburg and Soweto. They were the first questions I started asking anyone whom I could screw up the courage through my American upbringing to ask, “how do you think things are going since the end of the apartheid government with respect to racism?” and “what is with all these walls?”

You see for me, the racism and classism (which still go hand in hand), and variance in economic prosperity was so readily apparent it was like a slap in the face, but not as apparent to me is the level on the relative scale, how things had been before, not just in the 70s with the riots, but also 10 years ago, 5 years ago. The museums and documentaries don’t talk about this.

The question would generally spark a blue streak in anyone I asked, but the responses were all over the board. I mean all over, from my 20 something driver to the airport saying that racism and the affects of apartheid were completely gone, and the world had this hungover belief that race relations were a question in South Africa (inferring that we were all crazy). I glanced at the 20 foot cement walls topped with barbed wire as he spoke these words, wondering if he had ever been anywhere where this wasn’t a common thing. I couldn’t help but also wonder if his schooling had drummed this so far into his head as to be almost an automatic response. He was happy enough, a prosperous yound black man, and really seemed to bear zero ill will toward those with the ‘looks’ of the former oppressors. Its worth noting though, that the Afrikaans speaking ‘race’ are the ones considered oppressors, and English speaking whites were not in that same class. As a mere 72 hour observer, what do I know, but I certainly felt comfortable here with him. It is also worth noting that this kid had never dealt with the old apartheid government first hand. Sort of like people in their 20s and 30s in Europe and the US (and the world) barely give D-Day a second thought, whereas my Grandfather still holds a serious grudge, and teary eye hatred toward some.

I asked one driver about people on the streets, i.e. there were no whites anywhere, and he basically said exactly that, that white people were scared to come over their walls, though there was no reason at all.. it was just old fear, and a silly shame. They spend every second of their lives behind the walls, in the malls, or in office buildings. And yes I did see some truth to that, but not 100%… Nelson Mandelas house had some pretty high walls, so it was hard to see where the racism issue ended and the classism/poverty crime issues started.

Another guide (and driver) had me out in the middle of town and told me, oh yes, you couldn’t be here right now and be safe without me here (a burly friendly black man), but then he added, “but 25 years ago neither one of us could have been there, because a black man and a white woman together would have been a death sentence.” (HOW CRAZY IS THAT!!!! in our lifetimes in a “first world country!”) He told me many a mixed race couple, even if they were just friends, suffered such a fate. Its struck me very hard at that moment, that standing here with this man was perfectly normal and natural to me, as I grew up like this, I didn’t give it a second thought, but to this man, probably 45, this was a recent enough miracle that it was something that stayed in the current upfront conscious thoughts for him and MANY others around me. I felt as far from the USA as I’ve ever felt, much farther than in a tent in the middle of the delta in Botswana.

I have to also mention here that some white people I spoke with, particularly older Afrikaaners definitely came across to me as elitist. Of couse, not all of them, and not horrendously, but as an American where we try our darndest to pretend that classes don’t exist (despite the fact that they do!) its normalcy made me generally uncomfortable. Also the normalcy at which others accepted it. Weird weird weird. Since I’m going totally non-PC here, I’ll just continue this thought thread by wondering out loud if this is similar to what I find as the ‘old habits die hard’ old boys club where women really shouldn’t have left the kitchen, which I have encountered in numerous gray hair executives in my former job. Men my own age don’t seem to have that feeling nearly as often or strongly, and maybe South Africa, some 30 years from now, will not have it either. It will literally die off.

I mentioned this to my tour guide of Soweto. He was by far the most interesting of the characters I had met who were escorting me through this city I couldn’t dare go out alone in, even to cross the street. He was a teenager during the Soweto uprising. He was one of those students who was political in that day, who was helping the freedom fighters, who saw the horrors, and who was arrested for “having information for the uprisings leadership” and held for 2 years with no trial and no charges. I asked him how he felt about white people in general. He was poignant, thinking his answer out, “well, I’m healing. I can’t say that there aren’t parts of me, and many people here that can forgive, that can like you.” he refered to the color of my face, “but this is healing me, and I couldn’t be here doing what I do with all the tourists that come here, if I wasn’t on my way to feeling okay about it. Meeting people from other places does wonders as you meet people ignorant of all of it, and you can teach them, as they teach you that not everyone judges you by the color of your skin or the language you speak.”

I asked him if he felt that his kids and other young adults didn’t carry the burden so heavy and the felt less of a separation of people by skin. He quickly said, “oh, education is the only answer, my children grew up with white friends who invited them over for dinner. This is happening and its a great thing. Definitely, younger people are changing the thinking of South Africa”. He then quipped with a smile, “my kids are spoilt brats, you wouldn’t believe for all the stuff the ask for and then are never satisfied… and I was glad to get a 2nd grade education!” I laughed and mentioned that this was the sure sign of a prospering country where the youth are never satisfied, and can be upset and worked up because they don’t have the latest jeans, and nobody will buy them an ipod. “Just wait till the next generation” I told him, and hope that their next generation would truely have a youth that could worry about the silly material things in life, instead of gross injustice, human rights violations and poverty.

Finally I asked him if he ‘had done it’, meaning was he transporting the documents to the uprisings leadership. He smiled and said, “Absolutely!”

A Soweto tour is worth the money, particularly if you get a driver who has lived there for his entire life. There is a museum built near the site of the first death, Hector Peiterson, in June of 1976 during a student march against the use of Afrikaans in black schools, which sparked the beginning of the struggle to end apartheid, and also incurred international concern, sanctions, and condemnations. (as always, a little too little, and definitely a lot too late). There is a lot of history there, who knows how much accurately portraited, but worthwhile. I came away with my head swimming with opinions on what happened, what was true and what was false, and lots of facts about a timeperiod and era that only minimally touch those of us outside the country. I can say that I felt my question as to how much had change was answered… a holy heck of a lot, and in a relatively short time.

In my questioning of locals I asked if there are many who feel things were better under the apartheid system, knowing I would get an answer of yes from some. Like the end of communism in the Soviet bloc, there are people who were used to being told what to do, and not having to think, or even provide for themselves. Sure enough there are those who find capitalism distasteful and think fondly back to the ‘old days’ just like most humans do… probably with a bent toward remembering the good and forgetting the bad. Change has its own set of problems, and joblessness, violence, and broken promises have obviously been some of the price that has been paid in South Africa. Still, the vast majority of black, white, mixed, feel that the price was worth it (in my tiny little poll).

Just where they are now, and how much they have to go is not as easy to answer, but I am wholly glad I visited the city, against conventional wisdom, as I feel that I have had a first hand, if short education of the strides this country has made, is making and a tiny feel of what it is like on both sides of the wall and barbed wire fence.

ps. I hope that I haven’t offended anyone by these musings, as it is not the intent and this is again just an impression of someone with only a 72 hour education on the matter, and though a pretty worldly person, someone who also grew up in the USA, with my own sets of preconceived notions, etc. It is not 100% comfortable to write about this, but as it was one of the most vivid set of ‘different cultures and different ways’ I came upon this trip, I thought it a shame not to discuss, despite that race relations the world over is a touchy subject. Anyhow, sorry if I’ve offended you, I realize these are opinions only, probably not even very informed ones, but so is everything else in this blog!

After what seems like an eternity of living in either tents, huts, or sketchy hotels with mystery lumps in the bed, where you definitely didn’t want to run barefoot across the floor, I was ecstatic to get into my room at the Peech Hotel in Johannesburg.

Jo’burg is rife with tales of urban warfare and random crime and its enough to make anyone a lot wary. Because my main goal was to rest, really enjoy a nicely made meal, bed and shower, I had the hotel pick me up at the airport, and whisk me away. My driver (and I later found most drivers), was very chatty and told me all about the history of the different streets we were on as we drove through to the northern suburbs.

The northern suburbs are where the rich live, and boy do they live. In this world of high fences topped with glass or razor wire, a life entirely walled away from everyone and everything. But beyond those walls its beautiful, serene, even peaceful. And definitely high class. All shut away. After a day of this I already felt what it might be like to be a princess in the middle ages. A feeling, which might very well be false, that you are surrounded by all that riches and wealth could bring you, but you weren’t allowed outside the palace walls.

For the moment though, I’ll say it was awesome. Awesome enough that I took pictures of my hotel room. I lounged in my bed, took a 30 minute long shower on super hot, and watched TV. The bed actually had a slight heat to it… not noticeable at first but after awhile it was like super cozy. I’ve never been in anything like it, and it was incredible, as it was definitely in the throws of winter in Joburg.

Oh, and back to the Peech Hotel. I think it was mentioned in the 2008 Chic Hotels book, and it deserves it. It is a boutique hotel, very small, but super well, CHIC. If you are ever in Joburg I don’t think you could beat this place, even at a higher price.

Home

So my first night, sore as heck from the whitewater rafting, and walking like frankensteins monster, I thumped down to the restaurant downstairs and had a wonderful meal, and a glass of red wine by the fire, then igor’d my way back up to my room and settled in my heated bed for a long African winters nap.

The place we had stayed in Livingstone has to be up there in the top 5 worst places I have ever stayed.   It really didn’t matter because really it was just a bed to use, but its worth noting that in the budget accommodations to stay at, this place should be crossed off your list.

First, the shower barely worked…and of course was missing a shower curtain.  For some reason this had happened MULTIPLE times just to Katie and I on this trip.  Second, the security of the place was terrible.  We broke into our own room multiple times.   Our door was directly beside louvered windows that could be easily pushed in from the outside (they were rickety as can be) even if they weren’t missing a pane.     Katie and I were sitting in bed one evening and Justin in drunk form, came on in!  It really is creepy even when you know who it is to see a hand reach through the window, turn around and unlock the door!   Funny but creepy too.

The place was so insecure that I took to carrying my big camera around everywhere, which was a pain in the butt, and stashing various things through my backpack to ‘disguise’ them, as the safe didn’t work, and even if it did it wasn’t big enough to hold anything but a passport or two.

And of course, somewhere between the room, or the fact that I might have accidently checked it in my backpack at the Livingstone Airport on the flight between Zambia and South Africa, my little sony cybershot was stolen!   I really kind of hated that camera, but its more that I brought the thing specifically to walk around Jo burg and Capetown without a flashy camera, and now, right before its debut it is gone!   That and a few really good pictures from Florida forever lost.  grrrrrrr.  thieves thieves thieves.  So far I am out 300 bucks and one camera.    Times like these I really do hope there is a hell so people will go there who deserve it.    It would be a special kind of hell where it would seem like normal life, except for everytime you bought something with your hard earnings it would dissappear.   And no matter how you tried to protect yourself, someone would swipe it every time.    Most of the time you wouldn’t know it was gone until you looked for it and needed it.  And every once in a while someone would steal your identity so you’d have to spend 6 months on the phone with creditors explaining that it wasn’t you who bought 25 bottles of Channel #5 in Texas last month.

Anyhow, 🙂  be real careful staying in budget accommodations in this part of the world.   It will probably cost you more than you think.

Let me just start by saying I’ve been white water rafting before. Several times actually, maybe half a dozen. Some meandering, some exhilerating, one with members of my family bailing their boat into mine. One recently with a family who was massively overweight, couldn’t swim, and couldn’t balance to save their lives. The dad fell overboard getting in the boat, and managed to fall out several other times without the aid of any whitewater. But I digress.

You know you are not in Kansas (or Colorado) whitewater anymore when the rafting guides informs you that there will be four rescue kayakers with you to pick up the human detrius that gets knocked out of the raft.

Its cold in the mornings in Zambia, and still chilly in the open aired safari vehicle that gets us to the top of the river bank, which we then have to hike down. I have to say, they aren’t kidding when they say that the hike down is the hardest part. It is a good 15 or 20 minutes straight down the gorge. They have a rickety set of tree-branched latticework down some of the steepest part, which adds a little more danger and excitement to the descent.

Our raft set sail with half of my group of friends (the other half in another raft) all suited up in full helmets and lifevests wrapped tight enough to cause hairline rib fractures. Not 2 minutes into the ride, as we are practicing in a relatively calm little pool, Vinny our guide tells half of us to get out of the boat!!! brrrrrr. Then the other half! We are practicing rescuing and pulling our fellow man into the raft. The bad part is that it was a good way to start off cold. The good part is that already wet, you couldn’t get any wetter if you fell in now. And semi comforting that we all now knew how to get someone out of the water quickly, but semi alarming that it was obviously imminently going to happen.

So off we went through our first set of rapids. Justin, who was up in front of the boat, tossed in after the first couple of boat rockings… it was like one second he was there, and then he was gone…and we couldn’t see him! He was under the boat and quickly surfaced and we got some practice pulling him in. Methinks he wasn’t taking it seriously (as many an 18 year old might not!), but after that little scare he was a bit more alert about this! (and he managed to stay in the raft for the rest of the rapids).

As we glanced back on the first set of rapids we saw an entire raft flip. Its very dramatic to see, oars all over the place, little bobbing helmets up and down in the water getting swept away with the waves dunking them every few seconds. We rescued a guy that was swept way down the river as well as a couple of oars.

Because it is high water season we actually all have to get off after the 10th named rapid because it is considered toooo dangerous for us for numbers 11 through 15. The only thing is, we are climbing up a rocky cliff, all wet, holding an oar and in non climbing shoes. I jumped around pretty well, but I have to say, the climb around up and down the cliff was pretty dangerous too, I felt more ill at ease doing this than the rest of the trip down the river, and I like to rock climb. Maybe not so much for myself, but if anyone fell it was going to be some serious injuries, and a lot of people weren’t cut out for grasping thin ridges of rock and balancing. I guess we all made it though and were back in our rafts 15 minutes later.

The rest of my fellow safari friends were in another boat that took an extremely dramatic front end flip on the rapid after we got into the boat. On video it was even more dramatic! We however, had managed to stay in our boat (for the most part, Justin keeling in not counting) so far. We were third in line to shoot down the following rapid. Boat number one, rowing along, looking good, looking good, then in an instant, total flippage, people all over the whirlpools. The boat following right after having seen that, looking serious, but looking good, looking good, looking… FLIPPED, and here we go! crap. I thought for sure we were going in, as this invisible flipping area (which didn’t look all that suspect, like some of the major rapids) had claimed two rafts in a matter of 30 seconds. BUT…We made it! Not sure how. Its like whatever reached out and flipped them had sunken under the water to play another day.

All in all it was a lot of fun… some major fun rapids, only one girl out of the 5 boats who looked like she seriously could have drowned as she was caught way upstream in a whirlpool, but the safety kayaker eventually dragged her panicked self to safety. It was a good day!

The following day, and the following after that were extremely sore days…. I mean like legs so sore that I didn’t walk right! Yes I’m getting old, but I’m not that old! Fortunately, Katie, who is 22 reported that she too felt like her legs were going to fall off.

Dr Livingstone we presume? 

Once our group got through the border ordeal we headed for the Falls. Right through Livingstone, where we are actually staying. We are here in a ‘high water’ season, and because of very heavy rains the water is more massive then usual.Traditionally, Victoria Falls was visited by the Zimbabwean side, that side had some of the better views and the hotels and infrastructure was superior and right on the water. In comparison, Livingstone was just a town nearby, poor and with little tourist (or any other) infrastructure. Well these days, given the political issues and monetary issues, people are flooding the streets of Livingstone, and the town itself is struggling to build an infrastructure that can handle the tourists. Myself, and many others, won’t visit Zimbabwe, primarily because we refuse to give Mugabe the 100 US dollars it would cost to get in there. Products are cheap enough (where they exist, which isn’t many places as inflation is so rampant they can’t stock shelves), that many would never spend 100 dollars elsewhere in the country thereby leaving Mugabe as the primary beneficiary of tourism.

So, to sum up, minus walking across the bridge to the other side, which is generally free or really cheap, I will not be going to Zimbabwe. 

So back to Livingstone, the man, I mean, not the city. David Livingstone was looking for the source of the Nile. He was quite a bit off the mark, and frankly probably a bit off his rocker considering he hacked through jungle for months on end, contracting malaria, sleeping sickness and other issues, which should have killed him, and was the cause of his death some years later.I mean really! Was it that pressing to have to figure this out? Patience would have yielded better medicines, superior road building technologies, and GoogleMaps. It gets some stuff wrong, but by and large does a great job of spotting the Nile.

So, of course, it probably didn’t take much to discover that this wasn’t the Nile – for instance it was running the wrong direction, but he did “discover” the Zambezi River and the Mosi-oa-Tunya (the Smoke that Thunders), and promptly renamed it Victoria Falls after the Queen, in a most original move.

These falls were then, and are now, the worlds largest waterfalls – the stats:
-There are seven major gorges, most of which rise about 400 ft high and are nearly vertical drops.
-This is twice the height of Niagara Falls
-It is about 5700 feet wide, which is about 30% wider than Niagara, and to visualize, about 17 football fields back to back.
-In high season about 10x the amount of water falls versus low season.

The area is ‘rainy’. Like a heavy rain, and going across the first footbridge it really hits you, as you have water cascading down beside you and then rushing right back up on either side of this bridge. Its the greenest area I’ve seen since being in Southern Africa too. Its hard to describe, but I’m glad to have seen it. And tomorrow, I’ve signed up to white water raft it!

Crossing borders is my favorite – there is nothing like watching the crossroads of 3rd world life, bureaucracy, ferries, produce, products, businessmen, truckers and the odd little face of a tourist or two toting backpacks and looking out of place. Some scared, some harrassed looking, and some barely noticing that they aren’t in Kansas anymore. There is always ample time to observe these myriad of things as the guantlet of forms and queues are processed and waited on, first on one side, then on the other.

Enterprising vendors make use of the bored masses by offering cold cokes and native trinkets all outrageously priced, and even then, they want the bottle back! Before boarding the ferry, entertainment was provided by a gang of Botswanan men physically threatening a man whom I assumed to be Zambian with throwing him into the river so (apparently) scum like him would get off Botswanan soil. We also got to look at the lines and lines of truckers who would be waiting days if not weeks to cross on the ferry, clearly deciding that the cost of the bribe to get yourself to the to the front of the line was still too high, and waiting a week didn’t much matter.

Zambian visas are now painfully expensive, particularly for Americans and Brits. It used to be that the Visas were $0. But as of Jan 2008 they went to $135. Its reciprocity, but the Zambian government doesn’t seem to realize that this could hurt tourism something fierce, and they also don’t seem to see the ‘I’m never going home once I get in here’ differences between the countries. I heard a rumor that they were going to revisit the Visa pricing issue soon. Probably like the day after I pay for mine.

Getting our vehicle through was the toughest part, it came on a different, later, ferry then we did, and seemed to have may more stops on the way to visiting legitimately than we did. Still, I think, all told, it took about 3 hours. Not terrible.

The Botswanan people are some of the most genuinely friendly and helpful people I’ve met recently.   They have glowing smiles, easy laughs and seem to feel quite at home accepting cultural differences.   There is also a mild reserved-ness which I think comes from not wanting to be at odds with anyone.

Though the current government has made great economic and peacetime strides for the country, and the country itself is considered on its way to success, the population, like a lot of southern africa, is facing disaster.

Approximately 40% of Botswanans have HIV, and the vast majority of the cases in the past have gone untreated.   A cheap anti-retroviral program was instituted in 2003, however the statistics are telling:  in 1990 the average life expectancy for the country was 64.  In 2004 it was 35.    Condoms are now available in places like public toilets and roadmarts, but it is going to have to be a pretty vast change in both cultural stigmas and sexual practices (more sexual freedom for women) before many great strides are made here.

It is appalling to think that so many of the smiling people I’ve met will someday soon fall sick to AIDs.   Its something worth thinking about when considering how lucky we all are!

Okay, onto a less depressing subject.  Still, clearly in Botswana, we had made it to Chobe National Park.   Chobe is known for its population of elephants, which are protected, however, it is has gotten to such a state they are considering culling them.    For me this means we have a great chance of seeing a lot of elephants!