Seeking to put a little extra flash in the dash between the dates on our tombstones, Christine and I are off, via Amsterdam, to explore the Republic of South Africa and the small landlocked Kingdom of Swaziland.
Amsterdam’s labyrinth of streets and canals can easily disorient, and trying to locate our lodging on the corner of Herengracht and Keizersgracht we stop to ask for directions. The strangulated gargle of the Dutch language coming back our way leaves the impression that locals are either suffering from a serious bronchial infection or have a dragonfly lodged in their throats!
Exploring the ‘City of Canals’ we stumble into a legendary maze of alleyways forming the notorious Red Light District and find the world’s oldest profession is in full swing. The area of ill repute is home to a bounty of live porn shows, haze-filled marijuana ‘coffee shops’, and bountiful sex shops filled with erotica and anatomically correct dildos on display.
The lewd lair offers a whole new perspective on window shopping with almost 300 ‘window brothels’ illuminated by red lights being rented by a plethora of prostitutes provocatively parading their naughty. Wearing smiles promoting pornographic promise, the bedspring squeakers ‘John-fish’ from their windows while potential clients interested in pleasuring themselves by getting some lipstick on their dipstick or joining genitals negotiate to lease the ladies lips and loins.
Without warning we’re abruptly stopped in our tracks when a door violently bursts open right in front of us, and out jumps one of the carnal creatures clad only in a tiger print G-string and stiletto heels! With her arms in the air and fingers curled to imitate claws, the fleshy fem-fatale aggressively starts growling at me like a wild tigress through red-painted lips, definitely creating a ‘titillating’ start to the day!
The city has some 1,500 bridges, and rather than drive a car, most folks pump through the narrow streets straddling heavy bikes with big-ass seats, upright handlebars, and an assortment of box-like additions for carrying kids or cargo. Pedaling is obviously a way of life here in A-Dam and cyclists even have their own bike lanes and traffic lights. Renting a pair of these Dutchie bikes we cycle past a smattering of scenic old windmills along the Amsel River on our way to the village of Ouderkerk.
Marijuana in A-Dam is as readily available as a quart of milk and the pungent aroma is so rampant one can almost get ‘medically enhanced’ just wandering about! For Happy Hour we stock up with cheese, dates, and figs to accompany a tasty bottle of rum we kidnapped from back home in the land of mountains, moose, and maple syrup.
Walking home we pass a young girl sitting in a chair with her feet in the air while a guy lathers them in peanut butter! Apparently there will be no tiptoeing through the tulips for her, as this is some silly Dutch game requiring she be carried across town by friends without her feet ever touching the ground. To us the spectacle looks rather gross and not unlike she’s been walking barefoot through a dog park!
Heading to the airport at 6 a.m., when most hookers have long since closed their legs for the night, we spot a mistress of the mattress sitting in a window displaying a wealth of womanly epidermis. It seems this eager beaver is hoping to find an early riser strolling down mammary lane. OK Scotty beam us up!
A niggling case of the Johannesburg jitters sets in as the plane tires bite into the tarmac in South Africa. This is the second most dangerous city in the world, and according to police reports for the last year, in and around Jo’Berg there were 4,216 murders, 7,900 attempted murders, and 12,000 rapes. In addition, there were 8,884 car jackings which staggeringly equates to 24 a day, for every day of year!
Just after midnight we collect a rental car and begin our African adventure. All keyed up, we leave the security of the airport and search for the first of several roads hopefully taking us to our pre-booked lodging. With the night as black as a raven’s rump I’m driving on the opposite side of the road shifting with the left hand and mistaking windshield wipers for turn signals. Struggling to decipher unknown road signs and aware of the possibility of getting car-jacked, I’m thinking this makes about as much sense as sandpapering a lion’s ass dressed in pork chop underwear!
Only five minutes outside of the airport we’re already victims of our erroneous directional decisions, and with this time of night trouble prime time, we’re as nervous as chickens in a pillow factory. After several botched attempts we find the proper turnoff and continue with all senses on alert. Not a moment too soon we arrive at a tall electrified barbed wire fence guarding the guest house, and vigorously stabbing the bell and rattling the locked steel gate, we manage to wake up a coal-black security guard who groggily permits us entry to the compound. Halle-fricking-luiah, we’ve made it!
We ask him about the safety of drinking tap water. ‘Oh ya’ says he, ‘we half da turd best drinking vater in da vorld’; so we take a drink, brush our teeth, and call it a night. Next morning at breakfast a manager tells us to be careful to not drink any tap water as there’s a Typhoid outbreak in an underground reservoir nearby and nine locals have already died from it! Perhaps the guard was pissed we woke him up?
Continuing the long jittery journey across the country we quickly notice the aggressive foot-to-the-floor drivers. We are clocking in at the speed limit of a buck twenty but motorists flick their lights at us and then flash past in their metal missiles as if we are parked.
Anxiously maneuvering the slender roads towards Swaziland’s Oshoek border crossing we dodge pedestrians, on-coming lumber trucks, goats, and kamikaze cattle. Showing our passports and car documents at the border, we must then pay bribe-minded officials some ‘taxes’ before they let us pass.
Landlocked between Mozambique and South Africa, the Kingdom of Swaziland is the smallest country in Africa, and its desperate conditions are reflected by statistics showing 40% unemployment, 80% illiteracy rate, and 40% HIV infected (highest in the world). In addition, 70% of the people live on an average daily income of $1 or less, with 30% needing food aid for survival. This is definitely a country of second thoughts and has us pondering if perhaps we should have opted for a visit to Switzerland rather than Swaziland!
The failing Kingdom is controlled by King Mswati III, a corrupt to the core tyrant recently voted one of the world’s ten worse dictators. Raping the country while his people starve he enjoys a ludicrously lavish lifestyle with his own private jet and a fleet of high end Mercedes cars for all his dozen wives. Yup, if you want evidence of a waste of four billion years of evolution, I reckon this ‘digestive exit’ is clearly Exhibit A!
With the loyalty of a praying mantis, each year this polygamist pervert chooses a virgin teenage bride to marry at the ‘Reed Dance’, and actually stages himself to add another little coco goddess to his stable. Last month more than 50,000 bare-breasted virgins were vying to become the tin-pot dictator’s 13th wife. Obviously into screwing more than just the country, this tapeworm in a tiara is a textbook example of someone who ought to be neutered to prevent any further spawn!
Not surprisingly few foreigners travel to this catastrophic country, and with our white skin we are standing out like a giraffe in a duck parade. Stern locals never initiate a wave or say hello unless we do first as apparently it would be a sign of disrespect, so we always make an effort to initiate a greeting with those we meet. The smiles returning from the licorice-black faces are so bright that they look like the sun coming out.
Luckily we find some sweet lodging on a large sugar cane plantation called Malandela’s in the town of Malkerns. With a slice of last night’s moon still loitering in the sky this morning the car jounces over pothole-wounded roads as we make our way to the laughably named village of Hhelehhele; home of the Mkhaya Game Reserve.
Outside the office is an ugly warthog suffering the daft indignity of having a horrid head so heavy that it has to dine with front knees on the ground. Beside it, an ostrich starts hopping about with its monstrous feet scratching in the dirt so we decide to name him Patrick. Yup, ‘Patrick Swazi the Dirty Dancer’.
Today is our lucky day, as of their five vehicles ours will be the only one in use, and better still, we’ll be the only ones in it. A private safari in Swaziland sounds perfect, and with quick stroke of the pen absolving the camp of any potential injuries or death we are introduced to our Swazi driver and tracker named Siprakeen.
His well experienced transport is not exactly a Rembrandt. The paint looks like a bad case of mange, and the dashboard, windshield, and door handles are all missing. It also has the appearance of being attacked by a giant can opener since the roof has been amputated, but at least there’s nothing to impede the view!
Driving the dusty tracks we first spot the usual suspects; wildebeest, antelope, and zebra. Then, using ‘bush eyes’ born of long habit, Sip spots the amazing sight of a rare black rhino and large Cape buffalo standing nose to nose in some sort of stare down! Sip thinks they may both be old loners, as black rhinos are solitary animals and older buffalo are ostracized from their herd. Perhaps having found each other alone in the bush the undainty odd couple merely craves companionship.
The two seemingly love-struck beasts inch closer and closer to each other until actually touching noses, causing the rhino to let out a snort and give the buffalo a mighty shove backwards. Perhaps this is crude foreplay as the beasts slowly come together once again. Even Sip is captivated, having never in his many years of tracking, ever seen this cross species drama before. Quite an auspicious start to our Swazi safari!
Sip next spots elephants, and in pursuit our sloppy jalopy proceeds hither and thither over a road trying to shake loose our internal organs. Christine and I hang on tightly to minimize the chance of being thrown out of our frontier-era seats while driving to within a couple of meters of the ‘Gods of Girth’. Close enough to hear the 13 foot and 13,000 pound behemoths breathing we feel as insignificant as gnats!
The jeep’s engine is off to help keep them calm, but with the potential of a trampling should the ‘Ellys’ choose to throw a tantrum we’re as nervous as worms in a fishing derby. While chewing spiny thorn tree branches their monstrous schnozzle is already back in the tree ripping off the next mouthful. Clearly naturals when it comes to multi-tusking the plus-sized pachyderms focus their beady eyes on us until lumbering off in search of fresh twigs, with their wrinkly rumps increasing the turf between us!
Our bucket of bolts continues rattling over parched ground until we come upon a herd of Cape Buffalo. Their horns perfectly mimic a flip-style 60’s hairdo giving them a deceivingly docile look, but they are responsible for about 200 fatal attacks on humans every year. The grouchy heavyweights prefer to charge first and ask questions later; a technique also employed by Christine when it comes to the preposterousness of her shopping!
Being within spitting distance, we observe Oxpecker birds hopping about the buffalo’s faces pecking for parasites. The little birds have more guts than a slaughterhouse floor; getting into the animal’s ears, nostrils, and occasionally even their mouths in search of a tasty birdie morsel.
What makes our day so special is being alone with nature and having the luxury of spending as little or as much time as we want at our sightings. Around midday we stop at a place called Stone Camp where a solo table has been set up on a dried river bed next to a rack of wildebeest sausages grilling over an open fire.
Justifiably anxious as Africa’s perfect predator snack food, svelte impala nearby graze with ever-vigilant eyes, and when spooked they powerfully pronk away across the plains as if on pogo sticks.
Rumbling along in the jeep continuing a game of ‘I Spy’, our eagle eyed tracker notices the caramel spotted coat of an Alp-tall giraffe. Since we’re not quite close enough for a good picture, Siprakeen says to me ‘you want closer’? Figuring he will drive a little further I tell him ‘sure’. His replay is ‘OK, come’, and since none of the doors open he jumps out of the vehicle.
Sticking our necks out we follow him into the bush and hopefully not the food chain! With the quiet legs of a heron on the hunt we patiently tiptoe towards the stratospheric animals, but about 50 meters from the vehicle Sip suddenly thrusts up a hand and says ‘STOP’!
The snap of a tree branch causes an ‘uh-oh’ moment and we realize our perilous predicament. With blood pumping, hearts thumping, and knees bumping, we turn sideways to take stock of the situation and find ourselves face-to-face with two tons of trouble in the form of a mother rhinoceros and her calf!
Standing a mere 6 or 7 meters away from their nose horns, with simply air between us, I assume they are less than pleased with our two-legged trespass. Armed with only a ballpoint pen and paper I believe our concern is justified, knowing these bad tempered goliaths have yet to familiarize themselves with the intimidating power of a small hand-held writing instrument!
Our moral mandate is to flee back to the jeep but Sip tells us not to make any sudden movements and to just slowly return to the vehicle. On the outside cool as a cucumber; on the inside a squirrel in traffic! With eyes wide and heads twisting backwards in Linda Blair mode, we are almost back at the jeep when nature’s armored tanks slowly lumber toward us; perhaps believing our battle-scarred transport a long lost relative!
You know it’s actually quite amazing how fast one can get into a vehicle with no doors given the right motivation! Gentlemen, start your engines! Whew, the shortcoming of our deodorants has definitely been exposed during this pulse-pounding, sweaty-palms, and hoping-we-don’t-die safari experience.
Appreciating a day sprinkled with magical ‘remember-when’ moments back at camp we bid a fond farewell to Sipraken and begin the 75 km drive back to Malkerns. With it late-afternoon I acquire an urge to bang back a bevy of barleys, and since beer is an important food group to me, we make a questionable pit stop at an impoverished food store. Christine locks herself in the car while I optimistically enter the building.
It turns out that the store doesn’t sell beer, but a dreadlocked dude eavesdropping nearby chirps ‘You want beer; I help’. The store worker chirps ‘you go with him’, so I follow the Rasta lookalike around behind the store and down a dirt path leading to a shack. The door opens and over the shoulder of the two people inside I lock eyes on a big crusted iron door padlocked shut. ‘Come in’ says the Rasta.
Attempting to judge his genuineness I frisk him up and down with my eyes, concerned about the possibility they may be traffickers in human organs and running low on stock. A woman in a filthy dress unlocks the door and my intestines clench as the door hinges screech open in complaint revealing a nasty mattress, a dirt floor, and a fridge. To my relief she then opens the fridge door and removes three large bottles of beer!
After the beer and I stroll back to the car, Christine offers me a mumble-swear of a most unladylike nature for disappearing out of sight. We later learn that it’s illegal for most stores in Swaziland to sell beer, and what I visited is called a ‘Shebeen’, a spot purposely hidden from the Swazi police for the purpose of selling bootlegged booze.
Savoring a Brie appy with black cherries and a chicken dish smothered in Camembert cheese in front of a mammoth logs-ablaze fireplace back at Malandela’s I propose a toast to what has been one of our most fantastic days ever! Christine, my honey-tongued little supplier of awesomeness, seconds the motion, and with a syrupy sweetness purrs ‘except of course my darling for the day I married you!’ Yes, sir, that’s my baby, Sugar in Shoes. There are days when I love dat woman right down to the marrow!
We awake to a chorus of frogs voicing their pleasure in the cane fields next door, as for the first time in months precious rain is descending from the clouds and dimpling newborn ponds. During the night I’ve been hearing what sounds like a grunting pig, but questioning staff at breakfast I draw blank stares as they don’t understand the word pig.
Offering my best snorting pig impersonation, they open the fridge and pull out the bacon thinking I want more pork on my fork. My conundrum remains unsolved and the noise occurs several more times before I realize it’s just a ‘pigment of my imagination’. My mysterious pork chop in waiting turns out to be simply a rumble strip on a well-hidden road behind the bushes, and my face radiates a scarlet pig-mentation because to my chagrin Christine cannot resist busting my chops over my mysterious ‘Swazi swine’!
Our time in Swaziland hurries past and before we know it we’re bound for South Africa’s border post at Jeppes Reef. Ascending the mountain road in an unkind chill our attention is drawn to a mud and stone hut displaying soapstone carvings for sale. The gnarly-handed owner wanders out to meet us and after warming our hands over his open wood fire we purchase three of his carvings.
Further down the road we make another unforeseen stop beside little tykes wrapped in skirts of leaves busy dancing to the beat of an older fellow whacking a hide-stretched drum. We leave them enthusing over a supply of new pencils and continue on to the South Africa border. Thankfully, after all the driving during our stay we’ve managed to avoid the skullduggery of the Swazi police, known for being crookeder than a barrel of fishhooks and preying on any foreign visitors to fleece them of cash.
Our first layover in South Africa is Komatipoort, a town marking the border with Mozambique, and the last place to purchase food supplies for our four day sojourn into Kruger National Park. Africa is well known for its tyrants, tribes, and trauma; but we’ve come in search of its astounding assortment of animals.
On Lower Sabie River we spot a bloat of twitchy-eared hippos in grave need of a consult with Jenny Craig! Despite being practicing vegetarians they have a grim reputation for killing more humans in Africa than any other animal, and since the hurried heap of hostile cellulite can easily outrun humans on land, we quickly bid bye-bye to the snorting hippopotami.
After breakfast in camp it’s time to get intimate with the Kruger, and excitement surges as we immerse ourselves in the vastness of a five million acre wildlife park studded with horns, tusks, antlers, and claws. Prudently we smear on Mosquito repellent to help protect ourselves against malaria; the ‘silent tsunami’ in Africa responsible for over 1.5 million humans leaving life early each year.
With the rubber rolling we encounter some mammals we’ve always looked up to, the magnificent giraffe. With outrageous non-stop legs and necks, the rangy supermodels of the bush elegantly strut about displaying their beautifully patterned hides and movie star eyelashes.
Passing a troop of bad-tempered baboons flashing sizeable ivories, we stop beside a group of foraging elephants. Almost immediately a small pond of concern turns into an ocean of tension, when a massive bull displays his orneriness by flapping his mattress-sized ears and aggressively false charging the car! Fearful of a tromp-and-stomp, I pop the clutch and gun the motor to avoid a possible crushing by ‘Forest Plump’. WOW, what an adrenaline rush to end our first day in the incredible Kruger!
In camp we’re sequestered behind a high electronic fence keeping out any life-snuffing critters prowling about in search of a two-legged dinner. It’s kind of like a reverse zoo where we are the ones in the cage, but it prevents an otherwise open invitation for human hors d’oeuvres.
Sequestered away in our bare-bones hut we have hot and cold taps but no shower. This means splashing on water before soaping up, and then like a contortionist in some kind of demented game of Twister, stuffing our body parts under the tap to rinse the ripening essence of the African day off our skin.
Not wanting to cook at Skukuza camp tonight, we mosey over to a rail station where no trains depart and none arrive. The long abandoned station has only a defunct steam locomotive plus a few tables serving as a makeshift restaurant. I try to order a hamburger but the African waiter named ‘Doctor’ won’t hear of it, insisting ‘Man must have rump’! Though he is of course referring to rump steak on the menu I can’t help butt snigger at his comment.
Rousing ourselves at 4:30 in the morning we jump in the car, seeking to make the most of our pursuit of fur and fangs. Our first sighting is two bloated male lions swaggering down the road wearing goatees of blood. The fierce ‘meat-a-tarians’ have our pulse sprinting when we roll down the window to shoot them with a camera. Obviously there’s no getting out of the car into landscape intent on eating you! This is a dog-eat- dog world and we’re the ones wearing the Milk Bone underwear.
Under a canary yellow sun radiating down from a robin’s-egg blue sky, we stop beside a muddy river bank to observe a few smug-looking crocodiles with large overlapping teeth locked in a perpetual grin. During our sentinel of these shoes and handbags in waiting several fur-bearing animals warily wander past trying to avoid ending up in the digestive tract of one of the prehistoric lizards.
Driving back to camp along a seemingly empty stretch of road we glance in the rear mirror and notice our day being taken to new heights. We look up. They look down. Yup, we are being tailgated by a tower of giraffes; just another of so many inspiring encounters in the legendary Kruger!
Partaking in our near-nightly ritual of rehashing the day over a few ‘sundowners’ we decide to do our own cooking tonight, convinced last night’s dog-toy tough charred cow was none other than a fried flip-flop!
After scribbling in my travelogue I get the idea of scattering some bread crumbs on the ground. My bread-spread works im-peck-ably, attracting an array of fancy feathers with the star of the show being a yellow-billed hornbill with a jumbo beak that gives it the appearance of a bulky flying banana!
Regular vehicles are not permitted in the Kruger after dark, because as night snuggles around the plains it multiplies the threats. On a sunset safari tonight in one of the park’s trucks we pass a large dead tree with skeletal branches hosting vultures silhouetted against the paprika sky, and then coming to a group of Elleys, one of the big male tuskers trumpets a warning and the entire herd quickly closes ranks around the two babies for protection. The ranger tells us this occurs when they catch the scent of danger, usually from a lion or leopard; or perhaps in this case, a whiff of my socks!
Here in ‘The Land of the Bad’, the so-called ‘Big 5’ (lion, leopard, Cape buffalo, elephant and rhino) are so named for being the most dangerous beasts to encounter on foot, and tonight we’re elated with our ocular achievement in spotting all of the fearsome five-some!
At sunup we drive from Satara Camp 55 km north to Oliphants Camp through an area referred to as the ‘killing fields’ due to the carnage of big cats. Waylaid by a roadblock of cantankerous Cape buffalo we wait out the gridlock with the patience of a bomb diffuser. We soon learn that perhaps they were in the midst of a wake, as just up ahead the law of the jungle has recently prevailed with a massive male lion having taken one of these blunt-brained behemoths away from life.
The buffalo’s under belly is torn open, and the apex predator is lying beside his kill and resting his head upon it as if it were a pillow. With our car windows down just a few meters away our voyeuristic view is the cat’s derriere for a mesmerizing lesson in felinology!
Suddenly the gazers become the ‘gazees’ when the huge cat turns towards us with his mandibles dripping drool. In a predatory stare, the enormous golden eyes appraise us as like we may be tender prime rib in a four-wheeled display case, and hint that if we’re not vigilant we too could easily qualify as organ donors!
The killer’s ‘catitude’ is frightening, and since we don’t much fancy him picking his teeth with our rib bones, we leave him be. Bone appetite big fella! The ‘un-fur-gettable’ encounter convinces us that when it comes to formidable fauna that can cripple and kill, the Kruger is definitely the ‘greatest show on turf’.
Abandoning the jaws and claws of the Kruger we enter the Mpumalanga Province bordering Swaziland and Mozambique. Driving the Panoramic Route along the enormous Blyde River Canyon we stop for the night in the town of Sabie. We’re about to start a run in the morning when the owner cautions us the gnarly trail we’ve chosen is well known black mamba turf! Now I’m always up for a new trail, but not so much with the possibility of a pre-breakfast injection of neurotoxins from the largest and most venomous snake in Africa!
As an alternative to a trail where blinking makes you vulnerable, we opt to mountain bike to a waterfall. Huffing along a trail with unabundant shade our passage is scolded by a raucous troop of monkeys. Eventually the rock-strewn path becomes impossible to ride with terrain on the threshold of requiring a grappling hook, but having come this far we make an impromptu decision to carry up the hefty bikes.
Absent-mindedly forgetting to bring along drinking water, dehydration from the broiling heat wreaks havoc on Christine, causing her to faint on the trail like a marionette with cut strings and narrowly missing the rocks! We’re immensely fortunate to have an infrequent hiker pass by. He kindly offer some water which seems to revive her, and after a brief rest she dusts herself off and we cautiously pedal back to town.
In a peculiar Sabie restaurant I make the erroneous decision of ordering a steak with ‘monkey gland’ sauce. For unfathomable reasons this seemed like a good idea at the time, but in point of fact it is a thought needing a longer incubation period! Tasting like liquefied lava, the alien ingredient is simply an inferno ambush lurking on a plate, and with my eyes dribbling tear-water, I vow from now on to approach Africa’s devil condiments with a whole new level of vigilance!
Owing to a malfunction of my internal compass today we end up lost in a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it township of decaying dreams outside of Lydenberg, and concerned about our safety in the gloomy surrounds I stop and roll my window down to ask for directions. Approaching the car, and looking like she has just dismounted from her broomstick, is a disheveled one-eyed old woman with hair so straggly that a raccoon could get lost in it.
Pointing a bony black finger at us and sounding like a bullfrog with emphysema, she croaks out ‘you – back town’! We’re unsure if this is a threat, but with the old crone glaring at us with a cloudy evil eye we opt to sort out our logistical woes elsewhere!
Finally on the right tract, we later arrive in the high-altitude town of Dullstroom, but uneasy with its feel, push on through a curtain of fog to the mining town of Belfast. Our smile muscles are out of commission once again as this place has the suck factor of being one of the coldest towns in all of South Africa. However, trying to blink the fatigue from our eyes we know it’s time to halt for the night.
We never thought about Africa being cold, but after finding a room the power goes out and it feels like we’re in a damn igloo. During a liberal lubrication of rum one drink leads to another, then another, and we soon find ourselves getting bombed in Belfast by the IRA (Inflicted Rum Alcohol).
Longing for a hug from the sun, we are joyful to show the frigid town our taillights at dawn, but the roads leading to Pretoria are certainly fatal to boredom and give us another reason to shiver. Passing shantytowns of corrugated tin shacks bleeding rust my foot rests heavier on the gas pedal seeing bold highway signs reading; ‘Danger – Hi Jacking Hot Spot’!
Pretoria is dubbed ‘Jacaranda City’ due to its 70,000 Jacaranda trees, which are now in bloom and shedding carpets of purple snow. Arriving at a friend’s 1930’s estate house we immediately notice the obvious safety concerns. Protecting the house are cemented walls studded with broken glass and razor barb-wire plus an electrical fence. The owner informs us she also sleeps with a loaded gun under her pillow!
Keen for a further fix of fur, Christine and I drive an hour outside of town to a wildlife reserve for a visit with some tiger and lion cubs. People are taking pictures from outside, but after paying a fee and signing a form absolving owners from any occurring cat-astrophe, I’m given permission to venture inside the caged area. The monster mousers are only 5 to 7 months old but it is a great thrill to be able to tussle about with them.
Roughhousing in a game of rope tug-o-war with a gorgeous Bengal tiger cub I am totally smitten by the over-sized kitten. As it astonishingly drags my full body weight across the ground with not a lot of effort I cannot even contemplate the strength of a fully grown tiger!
Another lesson learned is how quick the cuddly carnivores can be. Engaging in mock combat with a playful lion cub it pounces and punctures the flesh on my hand giving a trickle of blood some fresh air. Mauled by a lion in Africa, I absolutely love it!
Driving back to Johannesburg where our Africa adventures all began, we return the rental car and meet up with an Afrikaner friend named Wiggy who lives in the city. Before taking us to his place he drives us through the sprawling township of Soweto, a propagation of sullied shacks looking like some very undesirable real estate.
Our keenness is further diminished when he then drives into the bowls of ‘Joburg’ for a wander through the eclectic and intense city market. Christine and I manage to purchase a bone necklace and an Angola Chokwe mask from a couple of characters looking every bit as hazardous as anything seen in the Kruger.
We take Wiggy and his wife for dinner at Jo-berg’s appropriately named ‘Carnivore Restaurant’, and though there are no cows on the menu there certainly are a lot of roast beasts. A massive circular fire hosts 52 Masaai tribal spears adorned with sizzling Fred Flintstone inspired racks of flavorful flesh; including crocodile, ostrich, kudu, wart hog, zebra, and giraffe. The only thing missing seems to be a hip of hippo!
Waiters carve the bounty of the jungle onto our plates until we can eat no more, at which time we cease clanking our cutlery and lower a white flag on the table to surrender. The lavish beast feast brings an end to our time in Johannesburg, but with a few African days still remaining we fly to Capetown aboard the low- cost high-humor Kulula Airlines. Dressed in jeans, the friendly staff has passengers giggling as they read out their humorous in-flight announcements before takeoff:
‘Welcome Kulula fans, and a special welcome to all our brand new super heroes. Here at Kulula we pride ourselves on having the best crew in the industry, unfortunately due to staffing problems..…’
‘In case of an emergency, masks will drop from the panel above. Once you have stopped screaming, put the mask over your nose and mouth and for God’s sake, breathe baby breathe! Then put masks on the child you are traveling with. If you have two children, decide which one you love most now.’
‘When you leave the aircraft please take all your personal belongings with you. except for the expensive stuff. All cameras, laptops, etc. will be divided up among the crew, although this doesn’t apply to children – they will be sold as slaves’.
‘We’ve sure enjoyed taking you for a ride today, and remember Kulula fans; nobody wants your money more than kulula.com’.
In Cape Town, Christine and I opt to ride a rough coastal train to the end of the line at the old naval hamlet of Simon’s Town just to see what’s there. We purposely leave our valuables behind in the hotel as the controversial gang-tagged train has a lousy safety record with sporadic muggings. Purchasing our tickets we immediately question our decision, as clearly printed on the bottom of the ticket is an actual advertisement for funeral arrangements!
After snooping about Simon’s Town we retrace the tracks to Muizenberg and get off the train to walk the beach to Kalk Bay. A couple of hours later the graffiti-tagged train returns, and getting onboard we’re followed on by three menacing looking black guys assuredly not ‘Citizen of the Year’ material. As the train begins to pull away, two burly and well-armed security guards jump aboard causing the three ne’re-do-wells to bolt out the back door of the car!
The ever cautious guards obviously knew we were being stalked with dire intentions, and kindly ride the rails with us until we are safely back in Cape Town. Beholden to our saviors we thank them profusely for their protection, recognizing that once again we have been fortunate.
Our four days in Cape Town includes visits to the vineyards of Stellenbosh, Kirstenbosch Gardens, Chapman’s Peak, Blouberg, Cape of Good Hope, and Table Mountain, before culminating with a 100 km drive to the former whaling station of Betty’s Bay. Why? Well to see the penguins of course! Penguins in South Africa, I know, you suspect I’ve been into the spirits again, right?
Actually, Betty’s Bay is populated by hundreds of ‘Jackass Penguins’, so named because of the tendency of the randy males to bray like a donkey whenever they want to get laid. It’s uncanny how similar they sound to a donkey, and we can’t help but chortle each time we hear one of the endearing little waddlers making an ass of himself!
And so ends our unforgettable days on the exciting continent of Africa. We have absolutely adored our exhilarating escapades, and now secure in the knowledge that our adrenal glands are fully functional, we can return back home to our tamer Canadian turf to unwind before pondering, picking, and planning our next year’s exploits.
Mark Colegrave October 2005