A Golden Ticket

I snuck into the ceremony late and took a seat in the front on a bench with just enough room for both of my cheeks to squeeze onto.  To my left, sitting in front of parents, relatives, friends and supporters were all of the World University Services Canada (WUSC) graduates.  These individuals earned the highest marks in secondary school, went through a competitive interview process, passed intensive English courses and were lucky enough to receive acceptance into the WUSC program.  The students being honored have been granted full ride scholarships to Canadian universities plus a golden ticket-Canadian citizenship.  The student’s faces all exuded an eager happiness not often found on refugee faces that can otherwise be prematurely aged by the difficulties of camp life.  Dressed in their best attire they were prepared to accept certificates representing months of hard work and an opportunity to begin a new life in a developed country.  We were entertained with traditional and modern dances, poems, songs and speeches from various guests of honor.  The moment everyone anxiously awaited was the announcement of the university and location where each student would be placed.  When the first student was called an eruption of excitement filled the room.  Mothers and fathers rushed forward along with other students to surround the graduate and celebrate this defining moment in their lives.  Film cameras flashed, people were picked up off the ground and small children flailed about in delight not exactly understanding what the commotion was all about.  Student after student was called and the overwhelming emotion in the air brought tears to my eyes.  Knowing the change that awaits them in a few short weeks was hard for me to fathom. 

            

Moving from the boreholes, dirt floors and pit toilets of Dzaleka Refugee Camp to a place where snow falls, good health care is universal and elevators take people to the top of skyscrapers.  No longer will they be faced with waiting for food distribution days, weathering tribal animosity and asking UNHCR for permission to leave the camp premises.  Instead they will receive some of the best education the world has to offer in a democratic country where their potential can be realized.  Unfortunately, they will embark on this journey without their families or relatives and be forced to adapt to a foreign culture while all the while keeping up with the demands of academia.  It will be one of the most challenging experiences of their lives where they will undoubtedly feel the weight of responsibility for the family members they left behind.  Despite the long preparation process, which included cultural and life courses, they have no idea what truly awaits them.  To be in the presence of such a celebration and to witness the life altering change taking place for these students is a memory I will carry with me for a long time to come.

DF: It’s food distribution day at camp which means families will be eating well tonight.  Most have already sold off a portion of their food items in order to purchase soap for washing clothes and other nonperishables to sustain the household.  For some this means a few extra Kwacha in their pockets, perhaps enough to purchase winter jackets, socks or closed toes shoes.  For another small number of people today means enough disposable income to buy beers and/or barbequed meat.  The men who have this luxury are all drinking beers standing outside of my regular lunching spot opposite the butcher’s window and boiling potato pot.  I pull back the lace curtain from the doorway and walk in.  No electricity again today.  I sit next to a woman drinking a beer.  This may not seem like anything out of the ordinary to my readers but to see a woman drinking a beer in public at camp is a BIG deal.  Seeing as it is food distribution day she is indulging in a drink and a lunch out.  A rare and, I’m sure, well deserved treat.  When I offer her one of two goat meat skewers I am eating she declines.  I figured she might like to wash down some meat with her beer but I figured wrong.  What I didn’t know was that she had already ordered six skewers of meet the size of half of a goat and was going to eat like a queen.  When I see the mass quantity of meat placed in front of her and the small smile of satisfaction growing on her face I couldn’t help but feel like I insulted her in some way with my offer.  We make eye contact, I shrug my shoulders, we both laugh.  Touché.  I think I am growing to like food distribution day just as much as everyone else.        

           

The Place That Cannot Be Found

Having slept for only three hours the night before I was feeling surprisingly strong and ready to attempt the assault up Mount Mulanje and Sapitwa Peak.  Standing at 3,004 meters (9,849 ft.) Sapitwa Peak is the highest point in Malawi and the highest in sub-Saharan Africa.  We met our guide just outside Chiradzulu in what I thought was a very small town consisting of one main road.  I wasn’t convinced that the man standing in front of us was our guide because he had on a collared button down shirt, pleated slacks and a pair of dress shoes.  Indeed he was.  He said that because he was to meet us in the ‘city’ he felt the need to get dressed up and present himself well downtown.  So humble are the people born and raised in the villages.  We climbed into the mini-bus destined for the base of the mountain with our sleeping bags, food, cold weather gear and water in tow.  Sleeping 'in', travelling to the meeting point, gathering last minute items and being at the mercy of public transportation meant that we started off late at around 2:30 p.m.  Even with a cloudy head and despicable math skills I was able to deduce that we would be hiking in the dark in order to reach base camp five hours up the mountain.  No regrets.  Dancing the night away was well worth having to hike in darkness.  

At the beginning of our trek we walked past small villages where children came rushing out to wave, dance and yell out the all too familiar chant of ‘Mzungu’.  During the climb we marched into densely wooded forests, over granite boulders, under canopies of trees, through tall overhead grasses and up trickling waterfalls.  Daylight ran out and we hiked on by the light of the full moon and the small torches we had with us.  By torches, I mean flashlights (it seems that English English has inundated my vocabulary).  Hour after hour of demanding exercise drenched my hair with sweat and sent a wave of exhaustion through my body challenging my physical and mental toughness (as all worthwhile climbs do).  After all, no great accomplishment is ever painless.  I forced my brain to stop pondering the two Malawian job offers I received earlier in the week and concentrate solely on my breathing.   

Steve, Melvin and Me

After the steepest accent was over we arrived at a flatter section of trail.  The moonlight reflecting off of the white granite rocks surrounding us made the final portion of our walk quite peaceful.  My legs were trembling and it was a struggle just to put one leg in front of the other but by the time we reached the hut and the smell of cedar and campfire filled my lungs I was smiling and reveling at the day’s accomplishment.  We were spoiled with a basin of hot water to wash up and a huge heap of spaghetti before being sent to sleep with fresh cold air sweeping through the one room hut. 

I awoke the next morning with chilled bones and tight hips but I was ready to eat the hard-boiled eggs and peanut butter toast waiting for me.  To see the mountain’s peak in the morning light brought about a new sense of purpose and excitement to the hike.  We filled our water bottles straight from the cascading stream alongside the trail and were on our way.  Before my second wind kicked in my breathing was heavy, my heart pounded and I fought to keep pace with our guide.  My calves yearned for a flat surface but there was no reprieve from the steep granite slabs until we hit the rocky trail.  We traversed through caves and over large rocks until we reached the tippy top.  At that elevation there was a noticeable climate change sending a brisk chill through the air.  In the clearing beyond the rocks was a 360-degree view of the vast valley below us.  The contrast of the blue sky and the white billowing clouds made for a perfect scene from which to view the summit.  We had reached the top of Sapitwa Peak, translation the place that cannot be found.  Locals believe the peak is haunted by spirits that prohibit climbers from reaching the summit.  Not only did we reach the top but we also returned in one piece.  That is after we rejuvenated with a high carb lunch and a nap nestled amongst the green grasses.    

A wise businessman had lugged a crate of beers up to base camp and when we returned from our strenuous hike the sight of cold beer delighted my eyes.  A 33 percent price markup was a small price to pay for enjoying happy hour on the deck of a cedar wood cabin while staring at the view of the villages and valley below at sunset.  After dinner the weight of my eyelids sent me crawling into my sleeping bag beside the firelight.  Never mind that it was only 7:30 p.m.  On the mountain rules of time don’t apply, you sleep when you are tired and you eat when you are hungry.  Come 5:02 a.m. we were up, stretching our sore muscles and saying farewell to the watchman and his son who stay on the mountain full time.  Another five hours of knee torturing descent down the mountain and we returned successful and triumphant.  We celebrated the conquering of Mount Mulanje with the sacrifice of a local chicken served boiled with slabs of nsima.  We hitched a ride in the bed of a pick up truck and meandered back to town alongside tidy rows of tea plants flourishing on the base of the mountain. 

Mulanje Tea Plantation

As wonderful as the climb and the views were it could not compare to the news I received on the bus ride home.  As the sun was setting and the full moon was already looming on the horizon my phone rang.  “Pig?” “Pig!”  Cody McBride Swine Amason Flores on the other end of the line, on the other side of the world gave me the news that she is pregnant with their second child!  My heart lifted up in my chest and I could not deny the perma-grin that took over my face.  Thomas is to be a brother!  I love you Pig, can’t wait to cuddle with that belly of yours.

Dome’s Favorites:  Packed away in my suitcase from the States were small ‘grow capsules’ that resembled large medicine pills but were something magically different.  Once placed in warm water these capsules transform into small sponges in the shape of 16 various farm animals.  A good friend gave me these unique gifts so I could pass them along to children in camp.  What she or I did not expect was the amazement these capsules would provide to all the adults in camp.  After using them with the children word spread that I was in possession of ‘growing animals’ so everyone demanded a demonstration.  Before our staff meeting this past Friday we gathered around a small Tupperware of hot water and I took bets as to what animal might possibly emerge from the compressed capsule.  Fingers pointed, stakes were claimed and everyone was overly enthusiastic to get in on the action.  I made a selection and dropped the enlarged pill into the water as15 pairs of eyes looked on in awe as the gel began to dissolve.  Slowly the spongy innards began to push against the walls of the pill until animal parts began to take shape.  “It’s a horse”, “I think it’s the sheep”, “What is it?” “Wait, wait…”  The smiles turned to laughs, the hoots became hollers and the cheering grew more and more boisterous.   I looked around and saw every adult in the office engulfed in a euphoric sense of childish play.  And finally…“It’s a DUCK!”  (Queue applause).  Note to self: Grow capsules=AMAZING fun for ALL ages!

      

The Township of Dowa

Before arriving here in Malawi my naïve belief about Africa was that it would be delightfully warm throughout the entire year and not get very cold.  Now that the wet season has ended and the land is preparing for six months with absolutely no rain, the long, hot days are giving way to extended nights and cooler temperatures.  Although the days are still warm and sunny the evenings are relatively cold so the locals have begun to purchase winter jackets in the clothing market.  The open-air market consists of stand after wooden stand of piles of second-hand clothes and locals bickering over prices.  If you need a slingshot, a handful of cat food, a machete, a pair of plaid red pants, a six-shooter belt buckle, a piece of Obama gum, a rice pot, an 80’s prom dress, a plastic bag of water, a boom box, miscellaneous scraps of fabric or spare car parts then the market is for you.  With a thrifty eye one can find everything and anything under the sun, complete with the strong stench of body odor.  It’s never the same and always good. 

Moving now from the markets of Lilongwe to the cooking huts of the village…

If you were to walk into a room that burned your eyes and bled your lungs of all their oxygen you would probably walk out.  Except if this room was your kitchen and you had the responsibility to cook for your family every night on an open fire.  I forced myself to sit in the small cooking hut enclosure breathing only the air coming in through the inadequate ventilation door but my will to stay long was fleeting.  The proud woman inside was cooking up a pot of nsima, to pair with the fresh chicken we had brought home from camp.  When I say fresh I mean just hours earlier we traveled in the matola truck with two live chickens resting on the dashboard and then carried them home by their scaly little legs.  As these chickens were losing their battle to a panga knife three of us were winding our way up the mountain that creates the backdrop for the township of Dowa.  Dowa is a quaint village complete with courthouse, barbershop, water tower and open-air market. 

The sun was setting quickly over the thatched roofs, cornfields and drying tobacco huts so we hurried up the uneven terrain.  I was feeling motivated to run despite having slept for very few hours the night before.   It had been one of those nights where the conversation was intense yet liberating, complicated yet comfortable and the time was sped up into the wee hours of the morning.  Now the warm pink hue of the setting sun was casting a peaceful light over the valley.  We listened to the echoes of children playing, dogs wailing, roosters crowing, old brakes chirping and engines revving.  From the top I looked out across Dowa, took the fresh air into my lungs and was paralyzed in a momentary trance of peace and harmony. 

Just hours earlier we had left Dzaleka and the curious faces seeing us off.   Jessi, the only mzungu (white person) to drive a matola truck over the rough roads to Dowa, captured more than a fair share of stares.  My hair blowing in the wind out of the top of the flat bed truck and the smell of the country bringing back nostalgia from Lake Tulich made me smile a silent, no one knows how happy I am right now, smile.  A cold shower, a home cooked meal and a visit with Mama Phiri, Papa Phiri and the family made for a wonderful night.  The earthy, chocolaty smells of drying tobacco leaves in the next room were welcomed, as was the stretching by candlelight and spontaneous laughter before bed.

The heavy eyelids I carried around the next morning were worth it.  Spending the night in the village below a sea of stars unaffected by the lights of the city and getting a glimpse of life in Dowa was perfect.  These are the moments that make me feel connected.  Connected to Malawi, to the people and to this place.  Every moment is a chance to experience something new and something genuine.  I feel so very fortunate to be here.    

Dome’s Favorites:  During ‘truck talk’ (the sometimes brief, sometimes profound dialogues we have in the Land Cruiser truck to and from camp every day) I found out that years ago it was an official policy for children entering the first grade to be given an ‘arm to ear’ test whereby they were asked to place their right bicep against their right ear and reach their hand over their head.   If they were not able to touch their left ear, they were not able to enter into the first grade.  This policy was initially enacted because parents had no official record of age so arm growth was the precise means by which students were admitted.  When he was a boy a colleague of mine was held out of the first grade for two years and forced to stay at home.  He confessed to crying many days because he had to watch his long-armed friends go off to learn.  Classic Malawi, organized and official.       

Part Deux

Pay good money for someone to send you hurling over a 200 foot gorge?  Yes please.  Just as soon as we signed our lives away we were strapped into a harness and sent repelling down the basalt cliffs that line the gorge carved out by thousands of years of rushing water from the Zambezi River.  The first couple of activities were mere warm ups for what was to come later on in the afternoon.  We repelled down a vertical cliff, launched ourselves onto a zip line spanning the stretch of the gorge and prepared ourselves for the gorge swing/fall.  Jessi and I decided to jump tandem on our first attempt at the beastly swing for moral support and motivation.  We were strapped in tight to two separate harnesses then tethered together at the ankles and back.  To the edge of the platform we crept, inch by laborious inch, moving as fast as the safety rope would allow.  We placed our toes on the solid cement slab and left our heels dangling off the wall. 3…2…1…Go!  Instant freefall, silence, clenched teeth, stomach in your mouth, wind in your hair, adrenaline pumping, heart beating, EXHILARATION!  When the free fall ended and the line caught us, a sense of relief that we didn’t fall to our death came over me and loud screams came flowing out of my mouth.  Again?  Yes please.  Five jumps later I was content with the adrenaline flowing through my veins and was feeling fatigued from the vertical climb out of the gorge and back to the platform.  On a side note, you know you are in Africa when the extreme sports outfitter you entrust with your life offers you beer with lunch.  Yes please.  Cheers! 

            

Feeling pretty good about ourselves we headed back to Jollyboys Hostel only to shower, get dolled up in a matter of minutes and head back out the door to catch the setting sun from the deck of the Royal Livingstone Hotel.  Marble floors, palm trees, pristine white walls, overstuffed leather couches and fountains all wrapped up into a five-star hotel and placed on a stunning piece of property feet from the banks of the river.  Sundowners with fancy cocktails, the kind that come with decorated swizzle sticks, and good company will always put a smile on my face.  [Yes shorty I have lots of pictures of the sunset].  

The next morning we set out to search through the hidden treasures at the local craft market.  Bone necklaces, carved iron wood masks, African queen sculptures, painted canvasses, whittled salad tongs, beaded sandals and every handmade curio stretched out before us.  One could spend hours wandering through the shops, negotiating prices, admiring local handy work and hearing stories of the symbolism behind the crafts.  In fact, that is exactly what we did.  Bartering and trading items is also a welcomed form of payment so by the time I relocated my friends I saw grown men wearing articles of clothing, hair ties and head pillows that not hours earlier my friend wore on her back.  I returned with some amazing items and with stories of the sweat and toil that went into creating my purchases, not to mention stories about soccer.  I find I can always make friends anywhere in the world just as long as I can banter about soccer. 

And just like that it was Friday.  Friday meant we would be leaving Livingstone and the home of Victoria Falls to return to Lusaka.  It also meant our trip would be coming to an end sooner versus later.  Without super powers to slow down time, I accepted our fate and climbed onto a bus.  With a slight hangover and slaphappy giddiness hilarity ensued over the next six hour bus ride.  My brain was conversing with Jessi’s so we didn’t have to talk much to communicate but when we did open our mouths it was either to eat fried chicken and nsima or to make fun of one another for the lack of creativity in our dumbed down speech.  (Insert inside joke here: “Female? Over 50?...Sister Michelle?”)  

When we arrived back in Lusaka at dusk the women in the bus station selling chitenje were still around.  Chitenje is a multi-purpose piece of fabric material detailed with African designs.  Every one has its own unique pattern and color and with the selection of a particular chitenje you can catch a hint at one’s personality and flair.  Chitenjes are used by local women to sling babies over their backs, carry heavy loads, clean up messes, provide warmth, make clothes and everything in between.  I selected three specific prints to my liking to make some skirts, shoulder bags and aprons.  Afterward, back at our lodge we got into more eating and our first fresh Zambian samosa taste test.  If I had to be the judge I would say that the Zambian style samosa pales in comparison to that of our Malawian samosas, but maybe I’m just biased. 

The next morning we woke up before the sun, wiped the sleep from our eyes and were at the bus terminal by 4:30 a.m. for a scheduled 5:00 a.m. departure.  The bus company preceded to over load the bus with car engines, mattresses, people, boxes of clothing, bags of maize and some bicycles as we waited for all the passengers to arrive.  By the time we pulled out it was 6:30 a.m. and although I was voicing my discontent loudly I could not be heard over the man reciting bible verses at the top of his lungs.  I was tired, cranky and hungry and subjected to bible readings for the first 30 minutes of our ride.  Ahhhhh!  Frustration can be funny sometimes though and after about an hour it was but those first few moments were painful.  I suppose not as painful as the woman sitting on the floor in the aisle for the 14-hour bus ride so I guess I should stop complaining. 

Skip ahead to Monday morning and the Labor Day holiday back in Malawi.  The goodbye party for Jessi was planned for that afternoon and the two other party planners and I went around town arranging the details and picking up the necessities aka beer, meat and samosas.  Beer bottles in Malawi are refilled and thus have a return deposit attached to them so we brought our empties in exchange for fullies, stopped by the butcher and chased down the samosa man with our samosa GPS tracking device.  Five crates of beer, 10 kgs of meat and 50 samosas later we were on our way to a delightful day.   There was laughter, local music, dancing, random neighbors, barbeque, story telling, ‘poop’ hats, roses and merriment.  What wasn’t so merry for me was coming to the realization that Jessi would be leaving Malawi for good.  For the past three and a half months I have gotten to know this wonderful person who possesses a courageous spirit and infectious energy.  Jessi has shared her genuine passion for life and for her work with me and I feel fortunate that our lives crossed paths.  Thank you Jessi, I am going to miss your sunshine.  LA!                        

Domes Favorites:  As if I were the Road Runner trying to dupe Wiley Coyote, I threw a banana peel onto the sidewalk in the path of my friend Alex.  Just as in the cartoons every segment of peel went up, spread wide and landed as if by parachute on the ground in front of her oncoming foot.  I was sure she was going to step over it but the little devil sitting on my shoulder wanted her foot to tread on that peel.  I watched the comedic scene unfold in front of me in what seemed like slow motion and when her foot slid across that slimy peel a fit of laughter fell over me.  She was able to catch herself with a quick hitch step, which was good because I didn’t want her to fall to the ground (I know I’m evil but not malicious).  It took me 10 minutes to calm myself down, wipe the tears of laughter from my eyes and breath regularly again.  Looks like the Road Runner got away with one this time.  Beep Beep.             

              

This Road Leads to Victoria Falls…PART I

The Plan

Friday, April 22: Depart for Lusaka, Zambia at 6:00 a.m. (13 hour bus ride & border crossing).  Arrive at Lusaka Backpackers. Meet Mr. Nedders. One dancer, one would-be thief and two concerned friends.

Saturday, April 23: Walk through the streets and markets of the capital of Lusaka. Eat dried caterpillar. Dance.

Sunday, April 24: Depart Lusaka for Livingstone, Zambia (6 hour bus ride). Indian food Easter dinner.

Monday, April 25: Visit Victoria Falls, one of the 7 Great Natural Wonders of the World.

Tuesday, April 26: Depart Livingstone for Chobe Park, Botswana.  Safari tour.

Wednesday, April 27: Safari Drive in Chobe Park and return to Zambia. Funky fajitas.

Thursday, April 28: Repel, zip line and jump off of sheer cliffs above the Zambezi River. Drinks at sunset beside the Zambezi River at one of Livingstone’s five star hotels.

Friday, April 29: Barter, trade and buy African curios.  Dance.

Saturday, April 30:  Depart Livingstone for Lusaka, Zambia (6 hour bus ride). Too many laughs.  Chitenje galor. Eat dinner with a bazillionaire.

Sunday, May 1: ‘May Day’ Depart Lusaka at 5:00 a.m. (make that 6:30 a.m. African time) for return to Lilongwe, Malawi.   

Monday, May 2: Track down Samosa Man.  Celebration for Jessi’s goodbye (tio nana) party in Area 14 Big Sister House.

The Details

For me traveling to any new destination is always full of excitement and eager energy.  A 13-hour bus ride could not take that away from me.  When we finally arrived at our lodge I was delighted to find a beer selection that did not include Carlsburg Green.  Over a few drinks we met the man, the myth and the legend only to be known as ‘Nedders’.  It’s not that he had particularly great stories or a quick wit about him, it was more his wobbly gait, goofy smile and greasy mop that made him central to our conversations. 

            

In the morning we set out to wander around the streets of Lusaka, past rivers of plastic bottles, black market dealers, food vendors, stylish Rihanna want to bes and ripe fruit stands.  [Side note: As I write this entry the power has once again been cut from all residences to conserve energy, so I type by candlelight and find it comical that my roommate is forced to eat a dry piece of bread for dinner due to a lack of cooking power.  The novelty of not having electricity has not been lost on me.  Now to continue…] The city of Lusaka, as compared to Lilongwe, has better infrastructure in the form of paved roads, streetlights, banking systems and overall business and organization, which one might say has both positive and negative aspects.  Keen to spend a little Zambian Kwacha I stuck my ATM card into a Barclay’s bank to withdraw some local currency.  In front of the ATM I made harmless jokes about the machine eating my card.  I did one of my signature dance moves expecting money to be counted and delivered but before I knew it, my card was ‘captured’ not to be spit back out.  I laughed in disbelief and kept on laughing because in the end I accepted a little help from my friends and moved on. ATM machine, 0-Me, 1.  After that fiasco some newly assembled locals toured us around the city and later on showed us a good time in the active dance clubs that are the spirit of the Zambian nightlife.  I believe track 17 or track 34 is my favorite.

            

A six-hour bus ride, some nsima and a sausage roll later we were in Livingstone and sporadically swimming with all of our clothes on trying to help a grown man learn to swim.  Easter dinner was spent passing naan bread and tikka massala at a delicious Indian food restaurant.  There were no colorful eggs or chocolate bunnies involved but that was a welcomed variation to the American version of a Christ rising celebration.  The very next morning we would find ourselves at Victoria Falls or Mosi-o-Tunya (the Smoke that Thunders) as the locals call it.  The 38,430 cubic feet of water that flow over the falls every second creates a cacophony of booming sounds that can be felt in the hollows of your chest.  Just being in the presence of that amount of water as it plummets 360 feet to the Zambezi River below is awe-inspiring.  The APA formatting, paper writing, social worker in me wants to cite the previous facts about Victoria Falls but it is my creative being that tells me to bury the citation nerd.  Done.  The first glimpse of the falls spread smiles across each and everyone’s faces, both young and old, toothless and topless, native and foreign.  The force of the water spilling over into the gorge below created a cloud of mist and rain so thick that the falls themselves were only visible in short bursts of clarity.  It is documented that on average the mist rises 1,300 feet above the falls and can be seen from over 30 miles away.  The sun shining above mingled with the water to create an angelic rainbow halo over the falls and set the perfect backdrop for wet, glorious pictures thanks to a waterproof camera.  To revel in the natural power of the water and the energy it inspires makes one feel alive.  Worth every minute of the 19 hour journey.

            

Being only a short jaunt to the border of Botswana and Chobe Park, a reserve with one of the largest concentrations of game in all of Africa, was too tempting to deny.  A double decker boat ride down the Chobe river gave us a different vantage point of all of the animals that drink life from its waters.  We could see elephants, hippos, crocodiles, gazelles, cape buffalos and kudus all looking for their next meal along the banks of the swift flowing river.  Again on land and in the safari vehicles Mutu, our safari guide, drove us into the park.  No quicker had we entered the bush had I spotted a dung beetle rolling a perfectly sculpted piece of elephant poop through the sand.  In my last experience in the bush the one element I missed was the dung beetle and now here it was, right in front of me in all of its glory.  The flawlessly round ball this beetle was able to sculpt out of dung in order to feed its young was nothing short of shitastic.  My enthusiasm sparked a riveting conversation about excrement that was interrupted so marvelously by a herd of elephants not feet from the truck.  Wrinkly and harsh looking skin clung to the broad shoulders of mama elephants, baby elephant calves dug into the sand mimicking their mothers movements, papa elephants scooped water into their mouths with their wily trunks and all appeared content.  All those except the adolescent male elephants who had taken a disliking to our presence and flared their ears wide and stomped their blockish feet on the ground to display their dominance.  Mutu did not seem concerned, but their proximity to the vehicle and their pure size and strength had me a bit apprehensive.  As they say, ‘all’s well that ends well’ and when the orange sun was setting on our day it was indeed all-well AND then some with a cherry on top.

            

A semi-circle of chairs surrounded by meticulously placed tents made up camp for the night and gave me a warm sense of cozy as we sat under the stars in the middle of the Botswana bush.  Over a campfire and some boxed wine we heard a tale of an Englishman who rode a bicycle 360 days from northern Alaska clear down to Tierra del Fuego, Argentina.  The adventure inspired a pinky swear and a promise of future bicycle escapades of our own.  Thank you for that James, I shall be reading your book. 

            

Waking up to an African sunrise and laughter caused by the regurgitation of the previous evenings shenanigans is a great way to start a day.  A pride of lions woke up to the rising sun as well and we caught views of them despite how well the yellow grasses camouflaged their fur.  A 47-year-old man and veteran safari guide with a gravelly, baritone voice the likes of Barry White told us that Chobe park is home to over 112,000 elephants.  Indeed the perfect place for my friend Alex to fulfill her childhood dream of viewing elephants up close and personal.  We left having seen everything we could have wished and with me owing Jessi around eight sodas for lost jinx duals.  I did NOT lose that double jinx in the truck-I mean it!  To be continued…

            

The second installment of “This Road Leads to Victoria Falls” will hit stands shortly so until then I leave you with this thought:  Just because the site of goat carcasses being strung up to eat, borehole water-pumps producing water, massive baskets loaded with tomatoes balancing on heads and hole in the ground toilets have become common place I will never think it usual or take for granted the random hugs I receive from children in camp.  There is nothing ordinary about having a child, innocent and curious, covered in dirt and dressed in tattered clothes, run at full speed then realizing just in the nick of time they are headed straight for you as they leave the ground in a superman style leap to embrace you with innocent abandonment.  The rate at which we spin around makes me feel intoxicated.  Intoxicated not so much with dizziness as with great happiness.