Adventures with Celestine

Celestine is what you might politely describe as a “character.”  A fearless, opinionated and often brusque woman, she is the type to dictate the route to a cab driver.  These characteristics are what have enabled her to, nearly singlehandedly, found and run CEFASE.

They have also made her a bit of a wild card: inadvertently severe, often trying and unintentionally hilarious.

I already shared with you her valor in the face of mouse adversity; plucking it from my sheets and squishing it with her flip-flop clad foot (something I still have not recovered from).  But in this post, I endeavor to give you a better picture of my life with Celestine.

As referenced, Celestine is prone to haphazard outbursts of song.  She has a deep, slightly gruff voice that tonelessly infiltrates every room in the house – and likely the adjoining ones given the thinness of the walls.  Many times I have stumbled upon her, eyes closed, in the middle of an impromptu African boogie.  My favorite variation was to a song called Let’s Knock Out Malaria, really finding her groove at the line “sleep with your malaria net, every night, every every single niiiiight”.

Recently Celestine barged into my room and proudly announced that a donor emailed about making a gift.  She gave me a high five (another pastime of hers) and pulled me into the living room to take a look.  It was a one line, unsigned email from a corporate address.  Skeptical of its validity, I encouraged her to google the company name.  Their landing page named them as the premier provider of amateur erotica.  Apparently I underestimated the language barrier because Celestine forged ahead; verifying she was over 18 and entering the site.  For once in the history of African internet, the page actually loaded quickly – before I could figure out the culturally appropriate way to say “this is porn.”  So there we sat…a web page of bouncing boobs in front of us.  Celestine was stunned, appalled and crestfallen.  I was dying inside.

Celestine believes very deeply in her religion: a form of born-again Anglicism if I understand it correctly.  As such, she does not drink alcohol because it “blurs her relationship with the Lord.”  However, there appears to be exceptions to this rule.  When in the village, I found her weeding the cassava field, singing and dancing with a half empty jug of palm wine beside her – at 10am.  She did not share.  This deep-rooted holy connection has also made her clairvoyant.  To date, these premonitions have only come to light after they have proven true…but she is adamant and vocal about her far-reaching powers.

Another of my favorite Celestine moments occurred just the other day.  I have a jump rope that I exercise with in my room.  At breakfast one morning Celestine asked me about the unusual sounds she had heard the day before.  After much back and forth to explain the concept of jumping rope for exercise, she demanded I get it and clear out the living room furniture so she could try.  It made for an amusing show while I crammed down my two giant oil-soaked crepes.  Turns out that, although spastic in her approach, she is better at it than me!  But the best was yet to come.  Celestine, dripping in sweat, whipped out a massage book and a floor mat from some previously unknown cranny and proceeded to demand that I give her a full massage; step by step as the book outlines it.  Since she was telling not asking, I dutifully proceeded to rub her down to the soundtrack of “Unbreak my Heart” which was blaring from the neighbor’s radio.  Such is Celestine…

She takes a bit of getting used to.  She will bellow out your name and you are expected to untangle yourself from the mosquito net and appear immediately; often for simple things like help tying her headscarf or choosing her outfit.  She constantly critiques how much I eat, which is apparently far too little but I am sorry I cannot stomach more than four potatoes in one day. Under the guide of improving my French, she will randomly refuse to speak to me in English -- continually repeating the same question over and over in rapid fire.  However, she never tells me the translation so as far as I am concerned this is just a fun guessing game where I run through my entire stock of French phrases until she seems satisfied.

Celestine certainly is not afraid to speak her mind.  For example, Kate was sick to her stomach before she left and Celestine decided that she was not allowed bread, her preferred food of choice, and instead must eat only fried foods.  Because a belly full of grease is exactly what you want when you are nauseous.  Her righteousness extends to even the little things: she has expressed open disappointment in my failure to adequately wash my shoes before venturing to the internet café, despite the fact that it was pouring outside and we were about to walk through a giant mud hole anyway.

All of this can be challenging, particularly because you are forced to rely on her for so much.  But I choose to believe that it is done out of love and likely the result of having escorted countless clueless foreigners through this strange and challenging country.  Furthermore, I suspect nuances of the English language are lost on her, making some of what she considers innocent requests ring spiteful on our ears.  For example, when meals are ready Celestine will roar “Tracey!  Please, can you eat?”  It comes across exasperated, but what she really means is “Dinner is ready.”

Personally, I am the type to find humor in the obnoxious and view Celestine as more of an amusing ally then a frustrating overlord.  However, I suspect Kate felt very differently and not without just cause.  The upside is that Celestine expects you to be as forthcoming as she is – something I commonly struggle with but have been forced to face during my weeks here. 

Even with all that, Celestine is quick to laugh and can certainly be a good time.  She may not have the genial disposition of Susan and Augustine, but she has welcomed me into her life with open arms.  And for now, we are stuck together.  With everything else you deal with in Africa, there is not much left to do but laugh and dance right along with her.

Life on the Cultural Periphery

Africans hate sleep.  It has to be some deep cultural abhorrence.  Or they are all machines. 

It is the only possible explanation for how they can go to bed at 11pm, wake at 1am and pray/chant for a couple of hours, then rise again at 5am to start their day – a routine fastidiously followed by both Celestine and Susan.  I know…because I hear them.

Further evidence of their ostensible disdain for restfulness:  they have no qualms about proceeding about business at full volume, regardless of the slumber status of others.  

Most mornings, I wake between 5-6am to the sound of music, and not the harmonious von Trapp variety either.  This comes in two forms:  either the neighbor is bumping tunes at  volumes loud enough to battle even the most raucous of frat parties; or Celestine is rummaging around the house singing the same line of a gospel song over and over again at the top of her lungs (God is good, God is good, God is gooooood). 

While both are preferable to the persistent and erratic crowing of a rooster in Uganda or worse yet the petulant buzzing of an alarm clock in the States, neither is exactly a pleasurable beginning.  Particularly since the God is Good theme usually persists at whim throughout the remainder of the day. (I preferred the reliable “Yes Lord, Yes Lord, Yes Yes Lord” repertoire of the Uganda gospel DVD)

Not being a morning person myself, I have created, at least in my own mind, a sort of morning code.  When I finally abandon the fruitless pretense of returning to sleep, I emerge from my room and plug in my computer to only available outlet located in the living room.  I then return, grumpily, to my darkened mosquito net sanctuary and wait.  Upon seeing this sign of my existence, breakfast preparations commence.  When it is ready and set upon the table about an hour later, a shrill “TRACEY” is exclaimed and I am given about 10 seconds to show my face at the table before it begins again in rapid repetition.

Asking to help in the preparation of this breakfast, or in the washing of last night’s dishes, is useless.  I am always greeted with a bemused smile…and then a stern no.  I have discovered it is better for me to simply hide and nurse my inevitably ruffled feathers from the wake up call.

Here in Cameroon, meals are not communal.  In fact, they will frequently prepare different food for me entirely.  This means I eat silently at the table while the rest of the family goes about their daily business.  This is even more uncomfortable at dinner times with Celestine, the only one conversant in English, off at church five nights a week.  That leaves me with the siblings whose French conversations swirl uncomprehendingly about me.  If on the off chance we end up to be eating at the same time, they sit at an entirely different table.  Exiled. 

As I mentioned, the food here is much better than Uganda.  That has not stopped me from adding a new food to my nemesis list:  okra.  Not being a devotee of Oprah, I have never had okra at home.  As with many food items here, it is quite possible the African variety of okra is an entirely different species then the version we found at home.  But here it turns all it touches into a thick slippery pool, reminiscent of Nickelodeon Gak.  It has earned the honor of being the second thing I literally gagged on in Africa.

Given that we work out at Celestine’s home, and we are in a more metropolitan area, I have a greater degree of independence than I did in Lira.  This means I can do very exciting things like….buy water, sneak to the bakery or even venture to the internet café without the assistance of others.  Thrilling prospects, I know.  It was actually one of these such adventures that I came across one of my favorite signs to date:  the motto of a local high school “Fear of the Lord is the beginning of Wisdom.” 

There are only two obstacles to my otherwise unadulterated independence:  I don’t speak French well and I don’t have a key to the house.  The first limits my explorations to places previously visited or within walking distance.  The second means I have more than once returned from such ventures to find myself locked out.  Or, even better, awoken to find bread and tea on the table and no one home….in essence, locked IN. 

Such is life on the cultural periphery….

Putting on My Business Socks

With Celestine freshly rejuvenated from her prayer-marathon (and from eating solid food again), we settled down to business. 

To fill you in, I am here in Cameroon working with a non-profit organization called CEFASE, which stands for Female Circle of Social Action and Mutual Aid.  Don’t worry the acronym works in French. 

Operating since 2008, CEFASE is a women’s organization dedicated to improving the living conditions of the underprivileged in Cameroon.  Their work focuses on capacity building and community development in agriculture, domestic violence, vocational training and health education. 

In English, that means they do things like:

·         Plant new farms and teach modern composting techniques so that rural subsistence farmers can increase their harvest enough to be able to sell in the market

·         Host trainings, seminars and village meetings on women’s rights, domestic violence and solving conflict without violence

·         Offer support, mediation and legal services to domestically abused women

·         Run computer, tailoring and hairdressing trainings for widows, orphans and single mothers

·         Teach classes on clean water, hand hygiene and pit toilet maintenance to rural farmers

·         Support and coordinate trainings on malaria and HIV/AIDs prevention

You may wonder…what is the connection between an orphan school and a women’s organization on the other side of the continent?  The answer is Ann, one of the people who brought me to Africa in the first place. 

Ann, a longstanding contact of Celestine’s whom she met at a social worker conference in Belgium, suggested that it might be beneficial for me to observe the structure and implementation of a well-established rural education program – something common in the field I want to work in and something they are looking into back in Uganda.  And hey…while you are there maybe you could help them with some grant writing too!  I suspect the latter is the real motivation behind sending me here, but either way…I’ll take any excuse for the escape from posho.

So here I am.  Mice and all.  Thanks Ann!

But in truth, CEFASE faces similar challenges (and affinity for capitalization) as KEFRAMA.  Both are philanthropy-reliant organizations that exist in areas where populations have negligible, if any, discretionary income.  But more problematic than that, people in both areas truly do not understand the concept of philanthropy. 

Organizations like CEFASE are an oddity.  While there is an obnoxious abundance of associations and organizations in Cameroon – nearly everyone is a member of several – most of them focus their efforts inward.  Members contribute and then that money is doled out to the members themselves, either as need arises as part of a lottery system. To them, this is charity:  a communal safety-net.

There isn’t the same cynical disdain of philanthropy we see at home:  my gift doesn’t matter, why should I care, I’d rather buy the new iPhone, etc.  Instead, the concept, as we know it, is unheard of to them.  Suffice it say that they don’t see change collection bins on counters, there are no sad bald children commercials on TV, no direct mail solicitations including free return address labels.  They just aren’t exposed to it.

Unfortunately, this means that we are forced to look to the more competitive world of international grant fundraising to support these organizations.  Bad news for tiny non-profits with limited resources (and thus scope of impact) and next to no international name-recognition.

I won’t bore you with the minutiae of grant fundraising, but suffice it to say that most of my time has been spent staring at the swirly loading sign on a variety of websites…cursing in the ineffectiveness of African internet.  Compounding the woefully deficient infrastructure is Celestine’s vigor yet utter lack of understanding the grant world.  Every site with the words “support capacity building” must be investigated thoroughly, despite that many of them are clearly charitable organizations seeking donations themselves.  It’s a slow process….

But we have identified a few grants that are in our wheelhouse, and I have begun the laborious process of agonizing over verbiage on the applications that will likely get only a cursory reading from an intern somewhere.  Remind me…why do I fundraise again?

Oh yeah, because every 20^th ask is successful.  And in those moments, you get to connect people with the passion and ability to people with the means and a belief.  I might be a naïve sucker, but I think it is in these connections that we see the world move forward; tiny baby steps towards a better future.  

.  

Cameroon: Week Two

My life in Cameroon has come to a grinding halt.

I expected to be largely on my own here – this time prepared for the “trial by fire” induction I had received in Uganda.  However, it had been negotiated that Celestine would clear her calendar for me during my first few weeks to get me up to speed on CEFASE and introduce me to the key players in the rural education projects.

After a productive start in the villages, Celestine came back and quickly went on a four-day prayer binge.  That meant attending church from the mid-afternoon to well after I ensconced myself in my new private bedroom (recently vacated by Kate).  But that is not all.  This time of holy reverie requires fasting, which left Celestine both crippled by headaches….and cranky.

Since returning to Yaounde, I have had but three-hours with her in which to discuss the founding of CEFASE, membership structure and project history.  We have yet to cover the rural outreach strategy, current financial processes or fundraising priorities – ya know, the things I was supposed to learn here so I can better do my job.

I am now utterly and painfully bored. 

My sole accomplishments in the past nine days include:

·         Reading seven books.  Literary value ranges from Oscar Wilde, to John Irving, to classic African apartheid literature, to Stephen Hawking’s book on quantum physics and the creation of the universe, to trashy book about girls “making it in their professional AND love lives” in the big NEW YORK CITY.  Don’t judge me – it was on the shelf.

·         Jumping rope for 30-45 mins a day.  This may sound mildly impressive, but when you consider that my longest streak without messing up has been 65 – a number I am very proud of, thank you – that takes the actual physical activity level down quite a bit. 

·         Countless crunches, pull-ups and other calisthenics, including the creative use of various bottles of water as weights.  Simply put – it is something to do.

·         Eating an entire one pound bag of m&ms(thanks mom!) and about 15 fluffy crepes – thus cancelling out all aforementioned physical activity

·         Spending 2 1/2 hours washing my laundry  by hand, only to slip while hanging something on the astronomically high clothesline and sliding down the muddy hill on my ass while wearing my last clean (and thus not wet) pair of clothes

·         Sorting beans for two hours, sifting corn flower for another hour and peeling two pound s of potatoes with a knife.  Yes…these activities were the high point of their days.

·         Flossing.  Hey, can you say that?

·         Discovering that the mice are not confined to the ceiling, but in fact feel perfectly at home crawling around IN MY BED while I am in it.  When I alerted Celestine, she unceremoniously scooped it out, threw it on the floor and squished it with her foot.  I am not sure which has traumatized me more.

·         Fastidiously organizing my music (featuring new contributions from John and Kate!) and compiling a multitude of new playlists to suit pretty much every mood or activity imaginable.  Cleaning?  Driving on a sunny day? Hitting the slopes?  I have a mix for you!

·         Sifting through the thousands of photos I have taken to date, and embarking on the arduous process of selecting and editing a handful for later printing

·         Napping.  Because honestly…what else do I have to do. 

Other highlights include the unexpected arrival of Romeo, Celestine’s brother.  He turned up one afternoon when I was home alone, speaking no English.  Uncertain that he was in fact who he said he was, we had a rather uncomfortable stand-off in the living room.  I simultaneously refused to let him out of my sight or come within arms distance of me…which is a challenge in our tiny living quarters.

Before Kate left, we did visit the local shopping market in Yaounde.  It was a small lot with about 20-30 different stalls, all largely selling the same compilation of African handicrafts.  The merchants here are much more aggressive and shopping can get a bit overwhelming.  Despite that, none of us left empty-handed.  Merry Christmas family – here’s some shit that was probably made in China.

The prayer-fest ends on Saturday, but then there is regular church from 8-3 on Sunday.  I am hopeful that Monday morning will bring renewed vigor to get to work. 

Otherwise, I might lose it.

Village Life

A few days after my arrival we set out on my first site visit: a small tomato farm in a remote village.

Let me back up. I am here in Cameroon working with CEFASE, a grassroots organization that supports rural education in agriculture, domestic violence, clean water and health issues like HIV/AIDS and malaria prevention. CEFASE trained the villagers here in advanced composting techniques so they could hopefully grow enough tomatoes to be able to sell some in the market.

The village was located about an hour outside of Yaounde; a trip we made squished four-across the back seat of a mini-bus.  Upon peeling myself out of that rickety sardine can, I discovered that the remaining 12km would be done on the back of my old friend:  the boda motorbike.  Woo!

The views from the boda were amazing, as was the feeling of the wind through my hair after the poorly ventilated (read smelly) mini-bus.  Cameroon, being just north of the equator on the west coast of Africa, is a lush and hilly country offering sweeping views at pretty much every turn.  The sunsets here are dramatic, even from our small yard back in the city.

After awhile, our boda driver pulled over at a seemingly arbitrary spot in the road and indicated for us to get off.  It was only then that I noticed a narrow path leading off into the bush.  Apparently, we were hiking it in from there.

After about an hour of trekking through the deep woods, we emerged into a clearing with, miraculously, a concrete house.  This is the home of the mother of one of CEFASE’s collaborators, Isabelle and her thirty-year old daughter, Filo, who has Down Syndrome.

 

There is no electricity at the house, and a large marble grave features prominently in the front yard.  Despite my initial fear, the pit toilets were a pleasant surprise.  While featuring a wider and more vocal variety of bugs, they were cleaner and did not assault your nostrils or come with your own pig symphony.  One might even feel the tiniest bit clean after a shower in there.

As I went to brush my teeth that night, I encountered one of the most beautiful night skies I have ever seen.  Perfectly clear, in the middle of the bush with no real lights for miles – it was absolutely stunning.  I didn’t think that many stars existed.  I could have spent hours out there just staring.

Obnoxiously early next morning, I woke up to find Filo peeking at us through the room dividing curtain.  When she saw me, she ran away giggling only to return a few minutes later and continue staring. This continued until I finally gave up and just went back to sleep; suppressing the eeriness.

Kate had come to the village to interview some of the locals on the transfer of health information.  I joined her on a few of her interviews, the first being the village’s local health representative whose name I did not catch.  In that role, he is responsible for the distribution of any donated drugs and for teaching his fellow villagers how to administer them.  He was elected to this position by the community, but his full time job is still farming and building houses.  Interestingly, his father was a traditional medicine doctor (meaning tree bark and plant cures) and taught much of these skills to his son.  The man intends to practice traditional medicine when he is too old to farm any longer.  He said he believes in the power of modern medicine, but unfortunately they don’t always have the money or access to modern drugs so they are forced to rely on traditional methods.

Next we spoke to his wife about her role in selling the farmed goods to the market place. Lacking transportation to the far away towns, the villagers must rely on resellers who come to the village every so often to purchase their excess produce.  This is how the family earns money for things they cannot make themselves – such as fabric or pots/pans. The tomato farm was designed to create steadier stream of produce and thus revenue, but until that point these people would sell the various fruits they could just gather from the surrounding trees.

The people here are living a life of subsistence.  And it is not easy!  They are constantly busy: getting water, cutting firewood, gathering and cooking food, or tending to the garden and livestock.  Food is only what you plant, kill or gather.  Visitors always came by with an armload full of fruit – mandarins, grapefruit etc—that they had picked on the way.  Fresh and organic!

After another morning viewing session from Filo, we set out the next day to meet the representative of the village chief (the chief himself lives in the city of Douala) who would escort us to the tomato farm.  On our way, we ran into a large group of people on a hillside.  Celestine went to greet them, and as we approached we realized they were digging something: a grave. Apparently, a few weeks before two men had gotten into a fight and one had stabbed the other.  The burial was to be the next day.  No one mentioned what became of the stabber…

The walk to the representative’s house took about an hour down a winding dirt road.  When we arrived, we greeted the entire family briefly before setting out on yet another lengthy bush hike to the tomato farm.  I was following the representative, who was haphazardly hacking at things with a giant machete…all while wearing flip flops.

To be honest, the farm itself was not much to look at.  The harvest season had passed, but there were still some tomatoes that were too small to sell but worthy of consuming.  We all stuffed our pockets, toured the composite site and kicked up some weeds before heading back.  Once there, we talked with the chief representative and others who had participated in the program about how the project went, the revenue they generated, what the next steps were and if there was a need for any future projects with CEFASE.

By the time we were done chatting, it was dark outside.  Lit by the glow of one iPhone and our confidence in Celestine, we set out down the rugged road with pockets bulging with tomatoes and other fruit we had acquired.  The trip itself was slow but largely painless – marred only by the deafening sound of insects and the ferocious barking of an unseen dog. 

The next morning Celestine turned up dragging a large branch from a palm tree.  She threw it down and said “please, let’s make a broom.”  Sure, no problem Celestine.

As we learned, to make a broom you pull the center vein of the palm leave out, strip it clean with a knife, let it dry and then tie it together.  Let me tell you – it takes A LOT of leaves to make a broom, but the work was soothing in a way.  Plus it made me feel all traditional and African-y, which is always cool.

On the fourth day, we set back for Yaounde.  To be honest, I would have been perfectly content to spend many more days in the village.  It was interesting, beautiful, and peaceful– largely because I was banned from doing much of the heavy lifting that living there entails. 

Like much of Africa, life there is hard in the village.  Large parts of your day are dedicated to things that back home we think nothing of – getting water, doing dishes and making food (which requires first chopping wood, starting a fire and careful planning when you only have two pots).  But the work seems in a way rewarding.  I know someone back home who would even describe it as his dream lifestyle.  Personally, I think it would be nice for awhile, but at the end of the day….I still want pizza delivery.

 

Welcome to Cameroon

My trip to Cameroon got off to an inauspicious start.

The morning of my departure the hot water in my hotel mysteriously failed.  I had greatly anticipated this last languid steam session – one whose memory I was counting on to sustain me through the cold bucket showers of my future.  I cried right there in my bathrobe….

Further complicating matters, I had woken up sick.  Drip down my throat, stuffy nose, coughing fits and even a low grade fever that left me alternately freezing and having menopausal hot flashes.  For those of you who have not had the pleasure of seeing me sick, I wither into a pathetic pile of “kicked puppy dog” sadness.  I confiscated my father’s cold pills, but given his uncertainty about which were the PM versions I was hesitant to take them until safely ensconced on my final plane. It was time to suck it up, Africa style.

The absolute last thing I wanted on my flight was a chatty seat companion, but despite all this “helping orphans” shit it appears karma and I are still at odds.  My seatmate just could not take the hint.  I gave one word answers, didn’t look up from my book and even coughed loudly and as grossly as possible to discourage further involvement.  Still he prattled on.  In the end, I faked sleep.  Even that only saw only a modicum of success.

After 10 hours of traveling with Chatty Chuck, I was exhausted and wholly uncommunicative upon arrival.  Enter Celestine, my new host.  Thankfully we went straight to the hotel and Celestine set out for water and snacks.  I, on the other hand, unceremoniously passed out before she even returned.  Nice to meet you.  Don’t mind this pile of dirty tissues.

The next morning we hopped a bus for Yaounde and my new home.  Still feeling feverish and generally exhausted, I remained surly most of the trip.  I had been told that Cameroon was much more urban and modern – that my time here would be more comfortable than in Uganda.

Lies. 

Yes, being a major city means there are more facilities within walking distance.  However, it also means it is louder, dirtier and harder to navigate. 

My accommodations here are rough.  The house is small and rundown, with a leaky tin ceiling insulated by cardboard.  The lot is small and cramped with neighbors, who are apparently less than pleased with the steady stream of international visitors Celestine attracts.

The pit toilets, I shudder just mentioning them.  They are located in front of, and downhill from, a literal pig pen.  While you never want to luxuriate in a pit toilet, this will put you in a rush. 

But wait there’s more.  You get to shower in the pit toilet too!  Yup, you “cleanse” yourself standing over a dank hole, in a tiny stall whose floor is always wet, listening to the squeals of the nearby pigs.  Prospective visitors, form an orderly line….

The house consists of a kitchen, communal room and three bedrooms.  Celestine lives here with her sister, Carol and her niece, Lilly.  When I arrived, there was also a twenty-something student from Canada researching the transfer of health information.  That meant that I was bunking up with Lilly and Carol.  I slept on the bed, while the two of them shared a foam mattress on the floor.  As if that wasn’t awkward enough, they also do not use the pit toilets at night.  Instead, they pee into a bucket IN THE ROOM.  That is the second worst way to wake up in Cameroon.

The first:  hearing the rustling and scratching of rats in the ceiling.  At first I tried to chalk the noise up to my room companions, but after hearing thumps one night I rolled over to see Lilly using her cell phone to peer under the bed.  Then a mouse scurried across the floor, up a plank leaning on the wall and into the ceiling.  Now, I have lived in Boston long enough to not screech the sight of mice.  However, laying in the dark and hearing them rustle from an unknown location….petrifying.  Guess who now sleeps with headphones…

On a positive note, the food here is much better.  Their staples include rice, beans and pap – a sweet, syrupy, corn flower yogurt.  The French influence means bread and pastries abound and their proximity to the ocean puts fish as a regular menu item.  Cameroon is also lusher than Northern Uganda, so fruit is more plentiful and varied.  Hooray!

Although initially horrified, I have started to settle in and readjust to African standards of hygiene.  For example, I have bed socks -- socks I only wear when I get into bed to protect my sheets from my perpetually dirty feet.  You adjust... 

 

However…I miss Uganda.  And you know – the first world.

The Life of Luxury - South Africa

After my harrowing departure from Uganda, I was more than ready to settle into an easy, luxurious vacation in South Africa.  And thanks to the meticulous planning of our travel agent, that is exactly what was in store – down to bottles in champagne in the room upon arrival.  Nice touch, my friend.

But more than anything…I was ready to see my parents.  Although they do deserve effusive buttkissing after this trip, I really do mean it.  The past few months of strangers and new customs left me ready to settle in with the familiar -- even if that meant listening to bad jokes and repetitive stories.  ;)

 

JOHANNESBURG

This was really just a stopover en route to the game parks.  However, my parents were able to pry me out of the shower and away from extravagant hotel buffet long enough to visit Soweto – the township where thousands of black South Africans were forced to relocate during apartheid.  It is famously where Nelson Mandela lived; although given that he went underground and then was subsequently imprisoned, he actually didn’t spend much time there.

The township is absolutely sprawling.  But to be honest, it was not as bad as I expected.  I had envisioned a shantytown of corrugated metal and thatched roofs.  Instead the homes were built of brick with glass windows -- nicer than a lot homes Uganda today! 

To be fair, the area is being rejuvenated and spruced up in the name of tourism (e.g., there is a strip of restaurants near the Mandela home).  And I am sure the emotional aspects of being forced to live in segregation, under a slew of racist and restrictive policies, created a different atmosphere then exists today.  Perhaps in its day Soweto would have shocked me, but today it simply didn’t. 

 

SAFARI CAMPS:

The photos are really what you want from the safari, but unfortunately the internet in Africa is non-cooperative at best.  They are coming, I promise.

We stayed in two private game reserves on the outskirts of Kruger National Park.  We chose the private reserves because there game trackers are allowed to drive off-road in pursuit of the big five (lion, leopard, rhino, elephant and buffalo).  In Kruger itself, you are restricted to the paved roads but have the option of driving yourself.  The park is not fenced so the animals pretty much roam free all over the area.

Both camps were small and incredibly extravagant, with eight or ten individual units housing two people max.  They were in the middle of the bush so it was not uncommon to see animals on the grounds.  At night, you needed a flashlight-bearing escort to “protect” you from cantankerous rogue buffalo.  At the first camp, I was warned about entering the gym alone because they had recently found a leopard by the treadmill.  Patio doors had to be kept locked, lest the baboons raid your mini-bar.  Although I would have sincerely enjoyed finding them sipping champagne on my patio…

The schedule was about the same in both places:

5:15 am  -- Wake up call/knock on the door

(Note:  As I learned the hard way, do not be showering when they knock.  They will call you three times and come to your door twice more to make sure you are really awake)

5:30 am – Coffee and tea on the patio

5:45 am – Morning game drive, complete with blankets and hot water bottles because it gets COLD

8:00 am – Stop for snacks and coffee/tea with Armarula (a Kahlua like liquor)

9:30 ish – Return to camp for breakfast

(When you arrive there will be a lavish buffet of fruit, yogurt, cereal, meat, cheese and pastries already out.  Do not be fooled.  This is pre-breakfast.  You will also be expected to order something hot.  Plan accordingly).

10:30 am – NAP!  Or lay out on your patio by your private pool.  Whatever

1:30-3:00 – Lunch (three-course with wine of course)

3:30 pm –  High Tea

3:45 pm  – Afternoon game drive

6:00 pm – “sundowner” cocktails and snacks at sunset out in the bush

7:00 pm – Return to camp, be greeted with a cocktail and a hot washcloth

7:45 pm – Pre-dinner cocktails

8:00 pm – Dinner either in the dining room at a “Boma” outdoor fire pit

You go out on the game drives in an open Land Rover with three rows of seats, a driver, a tracker and a huge gun.  We were fortunate enough to never have more than 4-6 people total in our car.   Trackers were in constant communication about animal sightings or tracks and often tag-teamed an area where they knew the animals were.   On a few occasions, they even got out of the truck to pursue animals on foot – slightly terrifying for us sitting ducks left lost and gun-less. 

These guys were fearless in their driving -- crashing through brush and bulldozing small trees at will, just to get you a good sighting.  And by good sighting, I mean within mere FEET on the animals.  If it didn’t mean certain death, you could reach out and touch them.  They say as long as you don’t stand up and alter the profile of the truck, the animals are used to the shape and do not view it as a threat.   I had lions look me in the eye from feet away and then just yawn; a leopard brush up against the truck tires. 

You stay with the same group on the drives and actually have dinner with them and your guide.  While I personally was a little tired of small talk, the steady flow of all inclusive booze aided the conversation and we met some really interesting people.  Of particular note was an Israeli family that turned out to also be traveling to the second camp.  They invited us to a private dinner by the bonfire, and were a great addition to the trip.  Gave someone else for my Dad to regale with his stories J

Some highlights and notes from the two camps:

Leopard Hill’s – Sabi Sands

·         Sabi Sands has a year-round water source and was considered the most lush of the two.  However it was still winter so things were not as green as I had imagined, but that did make for easier game viewing (no pesky leaves)

·         This was the more luxurious of the camps.  A little more modern in décor, with nice touches like heated bathroom floors, free sun hats, bedtime animal stories and a wider selection of snacks and booze.

·         The dining facility was set high on a hill overlooking a watering hole.  During lunch, we actually watched several elephants come strolling through.  Our rooms also had balconies with similar views, which was amazing.

·         Some of the outstanding animal sightings here:

o   A leopard dragging an antelope into a clearing

o   Sitting in the middle of a herd of 30-50 elephants

o   Two male lions feasting on a cape buffalo

o   Two lionesses giving their cubs a bath

o   Four wild dogs (a rare sighting!) tearing apart an antelope

 

King’s Camp – Timbavati

·         This camp was much more colonial in design, featuring big chandeliers and ornate furniture.  The bathroom wall was also floor to ceiling one-way glass, so you could watch the antelope and baboons from the can.  Plus, they ran you a hot bath a night.  Yes, please.

·         Here they did a “bush breakfast” where they set up a big griddle and all the fixings in the middle of the safari bush.  Our driver told us we were rushing to see two rhinos fighting, but instead it was time for Armarula and a feast. 

·         Some of the outstanding sightings:

o   Our first zebra!

o   A leopard with 2 one-month old cubs

o   Following a pack of male lions on a nighttime hunt (unsuccessful)

o   Giraffes making a pathetic attempt to run across a dry riverbed

 

CAPE TOWN:

Although I was sad to be leaving the animals, I was particularly excited to see Cape Town.   First up on the agenda was a drive out to the Cape of Good Hope.  This scenic route wrapped around the mountains and offered sweeping views of the beaches below.  We stopped for lunch at delicious fish restaurant on the shore and even visited an ostrich farm…because why not!  The afternoon concluded with a trip to Boulder Beach to see the penguin colony (!!)

South Africa is well known for its wine regions, so on the second day we set out for a taste.  And taste we did.  I became a particular fan of pintoage, a new type of grape I had not tasted before.  I also had a wonderful chardonnay/ pinot noir blend that I was wholly unprepared for.  Well stocked with bottles, we stopped off to view an elaborate private car collection – an appeasement to my father.

Our travel agent, the organized man he was, had even made reservations for us at some of the trendiest South African restaurants.  A five-course gastropub with wine pairing, an extravagant fresh seafood dinner on the harbor and finally a traditional South African restaurant complete with face painting and hand washing.  Not to mention some pizza snuck in for good measure. It is official – my pants no longer button.  So much for Africa skinny….

The final day we took a tour of Cape Town itself, concluding with a trip to the launch station for the cable car to the top of Table Mountain.  Unfortunately, the cable car itself was closed for maintenance but the views from the station were pretty great as it was.  People go parasailing right off the cliff there, which looked both terrifying and awesome.=

All in all, South Africa was an amazing experience.  I am sure much of that had to do with the luxurious accommodations; I certainly didn’t see the native South Africa.  But on a whole the country appeared much more modern than the other places I have been.  Our tour guide in Johannesburg says much of that is due to the investments made in advance of the 2010 World Cup.  I am sure another large part of it comes from the well-established tourist industry. Either way, it is certainly a place I would come back to….perhaps even live?!

The best part of this trip: it got my parents to Africa.  A place they never thought of traveling and a continent whose mere mention would induce cringes.  And now, they are talking about where else they’d like to go here (Kenya for the great migration?  Even Uganda for the gorillas!)  I tell ya…this place does have its appeal.

On to Cameroon!!!