A picture in 60,000 words
Sunday, September 19th, 2004I have decided to serialise my travelogue on Sri Lanka: ‘The Whales of Trincomalee’ in this blog. Let’s face it; it will never see the light of day as a book.
[read on]
Archive for September, 2004
« Home
A day on the river — with pictures!
Thursday, September 16th, 2004This story has recently appeared on BootsNall, but I have now unearthed the original slides from the loft and it works much better with pictures!
What do I remember about San Fernando de Apure?
Ants.
“Capybara con aroz”, the world’s largest rodent on the menu.
Piranhas that eat cigarettes.
Giant waterbugs, the size of my hand. The world’s biggest insects. They were swarming under the streetlights, expiring flapping on the pavement.
The best paella I have ever tasted. The first paella I have ever tasted.
The world’s finest rum.
San Fernando de Apure, in central Venezuela, was our haven between trips down the Apure and across the Orinoco looking for river dolphins (Inia geoffrensis). While we were waiting to arrange for a dug-out to take on a longer trip, we paddled around the local tributaries in a small aluminium canoe, pulling up on banks or drifting slowly down the current; studying the dolphins within easy reach of San Fernando’s urban comforts.
It was a calm day and we were drifting slowly, almost stationary, on a side-arm of the Apurito tributary which had widened across a shallow plain, almost forming a lake. It was a great day for dolphin-watching.
At first we had only spotted one animal, but as we settled down to our observations we soon noticed that we were surounded by a group of five or even more.
In the murky water, their shapes remained invisible and they seldom extended more than their blow-hole and the uppermost part of their dome-shaped head above water-level, so we could not get a clear idea of how many there were. But I was sure there was at least one calf among them.
Engrossed as we were, with time we relaxed, sipping from our flasks and puffing on cigarettes while keeping an eye on the water.
I sat back and dangled one hand lazily over the side of the boat, flipping a butt overboard with the other. A shadowy movement just below the surface — the butt was gone. I pulled my arms up close. We stared at the spot where it had vanished: the water was mirror-calm once again. John dropped his cigarette into the water. The same thing happened. Barely a ripple had broken the surface.
“Piranhas?” he whispered.
We had seen them in the market only the day before. The locals catch them by simply tapping a stick onto the water and hauling them into the boat: fat, silver fish a foot long, covered in tiny scales, their gaping jaws studded with razor-sharp teeth. The dolphins eat them. Maybe that was why there were so many dolphins here.
“Probably,” I whispered back: “Let’s not dangle our hands in the water.”
We had gradually drifted closer to shore. That suited us fine, it was about lunchtime. I took the paddle and John steered the boat towards the bank. Chatting, I looked over my shoulder only to see him stare fixedly ahead, noticably paler. His lips formed a word but no sound came out. I turned back and found myself staring into the barrel of a gun.
The guy who trained the weapon on us at point-blank range wore a stetson, a chequered shirt and a miffed expression. No self-respecting bandito dressed like that. As far as we could surmise, he was on his own. He was the ranchero and we were trespassing on his land.
We spoke about three words of Spanish between us, so I doubt he could understand our assurances that we were students studying river dolphins. No matter — we had to try.
“Boto!” John explained.
The guy fixed me for a moment with what I can only describe as an appalled stare before assuming a more menacing frown. I remembered that this is what the dolphins are called in Brazil, but not up here. He could not understand a word of what we were trying to say. Suddenly, I remembered.
“Tonina!” I cried. The guy’s expression relaxed at once.
“Estudiantes”, I went on: “Biologie.” I pointed at my eyes and slowly swept my arms across the river behind us: “Toninas!”
“Ah si.” The man appeared satisfied, but he clearly had us down as crazy. John indicated the boat and ourselves and pointed down the river. The man waved his gun dismissively; we were free to take our leave. This we did, paddling as speedily as the current allowed, all the way back to town.
“Boto” we would learn later that evening, is the local dialect for “hooker”.
The end of a long journey
Wednesday, September 15th, 2004RSA July 1984
It was nearly five in the morning and I longed for a cell to sleep in. I managed to convince the chief that I was dead tired and was finally taken to a room upstairs. I had slept for an hour when a fresh-looking cop shook me awake. There had been a shift-change. When did I have to get up?
“After sunrise!” I grumbled.
Half an hour later, the guy was back.
Cops take everything literally. As I stumbled into the cold misty air outside the station, the first rays of the morning sun had just appeared above the clouds. I marvelled at the sight of the mountains, their summits covered with a icing-sugar dusting of snow.
[read on]
A night at the precinct
Monday, September 13th, 2004RSA July 1984
After about a week in Jo’burg I felt alright and ready to continue. It was difficult to find a spot to hitchhike, the highways leading out of town were dangerous.
[read on]
Dying of Embarrassment
Sunday, September 12th, 2004RSA July 1984
This is perhaps the closest I have come to spending a night in hell. The story is written from memory (my mother never got to know about it) so my recall of the exact locations, names and even the memory of malaria are hazy, but that night is one I won’t forget in a hurry.
I was in a ratty mood. Feeling weak made me cranky. After three quarters of an hour by the side of a hot, dusty road somewhere in Gaborone, I had barely enough strengh left to hold out my thumb. I admitted to myself that I was in a pickle. My thirst for freedom and adventure had been quenched for the moment.
[read on]
Mountain Oysters with Cockle Sauce
Sunday, September 12th, 2004The summer is gone, the hills are obscured by a grey veil of clouds and drizzle and I am planning my winter-getaways (Portugal and, possibly, the Miami Winter Music Conference — watch this space).
Already, it is time for nostalgic memories of the summer that was. This year, we did not manage a late August visit to my sister’s beach villa in Borth and now it is too late to catch the last of the sunshine, to eat freshly caught fish, chips and mushy peas while sitting on a bench in the breeze or (damn) to try out her new sailing boat (we had the wetsuits ready in the boot of the car ever since hearing the news — when sailing with John you do need a wetsuit).
[read on]
Scout Camp
Saturday, September 11th, 2004 Botswana, July 1984
Lusaka was expensive and I soon hit the road again, heading via the Victoria Falls and Zimbabwe (you guessed it, the notes are lost) into Botswana. Hitchiking wasn’t easy here as most vehicles were full to bursting point. I stood in the sweltering heat and watched cars and pick-ups rush past, the drivers signalling that they were full or were local.
[read on]
Visiting a Friend
Thursday, September 9th, 2004Zambia, July 1984
The journey into the heart of Zambia was completed in another train which waited for us a short way from the border. I shared a compartment with three cheerful Zambians and a man from Zaïre. One of the Zambians spoke French. His mother had been from Zaïre and he had studied there. His other two friends, Aziza and “Fantax” were magicians. Aziza showed me a tiny snake he kept in a cardboard box and Fantax performed a coin-trick: rubbing a coin several times then pressing it against my forearm whereupon it disappeared. “You’ll see,” he said: “in two hours time your arm will start to scratch. If not in two hours, then in four or six — or maybe tomorrow. Then you’ll shake your hand and the coin will fall out!”
Before they disemarked, Aziza magicked the coin back. It did not erupt from my skin, rather he put his hat on my head, ran his hands around it and proffered it in his outstretched fist.
[read on]
TAZARA
Wednesday, September 8th, 2004TAZARA, July 1984
A brief, firm handshake, a heart-felt goodbye and I left Hamed and friends behind. Yet again I experienced this weird turmoil of emotions–choking yet prickly anticipatory–I get when leaving a place and embarking on a new adventure. I had been in Tanzania for 50 days and had grown to love the country and its uncanny friendly people (well, most of them). I had already resolved to return one day.
[read on]
Winding up Business in Dar
Tuesday, September 7th, 2004Tanzania, July 1984
We landed directly on the beach at Bagamoyo. Perhaps the ship was operated by smugglers.
In the past Bagamoyo, roughly translated as “here I leave my heart behind”, was a harbour from where the Arabs shipped slaves to Zanzibar and Oman.Now it is a gloomy little town with nothing to see. Along with the rest of the passengers, I resolved to get back to Dar immediately. We managed to hire a small van. It wasn’t cheap, prices varied from 60-130 sh each, but I wasn’t left behind when I offered 50.
[read on]
Denni
