Just a quick note to let you know that I'm alive and well, just been out of contact with civilization for a while. There's loads of stories to be shared and photos too, if I can ever convince another internet cafe to let me plug in my camera. It seems that so far only Zimbabwe was a fan of that.
Short version? We spent four days canoeing down the Zambezi River, flew to Cape Town where we spent a night with our friend Muray's parents and are now up the coast in George hanging out with another old Mercy Ships friend. We're about to go on some sort of cave adventure in Cango Caves. I don't know if this is really a good idea, because did you know I'm absolutely, terribly claustrophobic?
Yeah. This is probably the first time I've been properly scared on this trip, and I've crawled on hands and knees through the grass to within thirty metres of where two huge hippos were fighting. But that's a story for another day...
Edited to add:
I've gone back to catch up on some stories. They're posted in a bit more of a chronological order, so they're showing up below this one. I'm not sure what will be happening for those of you who have me in a reader, since I'm all over the place. It might be worth just clicking through to make sure you're not missing anything. I'm also going to be going back through old entires over the next few days and posting photos, since the place we're staying right now has free internet. Stay tuned!
Friday, August 27. 2010
watch this space
Wednesday, August 25. 2010
more on the river
(Pioneer Lodge, outside Lusaka, Zambia)
I haven't written much about life over the last few days because I've been far too busy living it, the breaking bones and sucking out the marrow kind of living.
Causemore told us that you haven't experienced Africa until you've canoed the Zambezi. I think he might be right.
Day One:
We dropped in around 10:30, moving slowly away from the lodge where we'd stayed the night before. The sky was, typically, a cloudless blue and the current carried us along. We took most of the day just to get accustomed to paddling and steering, learning how to avoid tree stu8mps and swirling eddies in the water. This is not as easy as it sounds, especially when neither one in your canoe has any experience. (I am not counting the three days I spent on the Delaware when I was fourteen. There in no comparison even remotely possible.)
When it was time for lunch, we pulled our canoes up a sandy beach and Causemore directed us through the untying of tarpaulins and collecting of water and chopping of vegetables since our canoes turned out to be carrying crates filled with utensils and food and folding stools and even a small metal table. In what would become a routine over the next days, we all busied ourselves at whatever tasks Causemore alloted to us. I think that was the best sandwich I've ever eaten, sitting in the bright sunshine on the bank of the Zambezi River.
After lunch, we pushed off again and it wasn't long before we began to encounter wildlife of the larger variety, birds having already been our constant companions. The most memorable of these encounters (at least for this first day; things got better later on) was when we came upon a herd of about tn or so bull elephants. I would have been content watching them munch on the tall grass from the far side of the river, but Causmore directed us into the shore, not thirty feet from where they were. We could hear them chewing, the water splashing and the grass being ripped out by their agile trunks.
We watched them for a while, feeling incredibly small next to their massive bulk and then Causemore direted us to paddle up a small channel, putting us face to face with a young bull about twenty feet away. He looked up from his meal, flapping his ears in warning and then started to charge, water spraying everywhere as Causemore relaxed in his canoe and I seriously considered jumping ship and swimming away through croc-infected waters.
Causemore, it turned out, had the right reaction. A young bull isn't tough enough to charge for real and, in true form, the one stampeding towards us pulled up short after a few steps and shook his trunk once more before turning and ambling off.
That experience set the tone for the rest of the trip.
That night, we camped on a tiny island in the middle of the river, all sand and reeds and hippos surrounding us in the water. We made a fire and Causemore cooked us some dinner and we relaxed while the moon rose, throwing our shadows across the sand.
It was a good day.
Day Two:
Today was a day for hippos. They're Julle's favourite animal, and the one we were guaranteed to see on the river. This stretch is wide enough that you really do have to pick sides; either stick to the Zambian side and canoe past villages or brave the Zimbabwean side, where you'll have to paddle through a place Causemore has named Hippo City. He explained to us later that he doesn't take everyone through Hippo City; if he can't be sure they'll stay safe, he stays on the Zambian side. But we had somehow proved ourselves yesterday (maybe it was staying in the canoes while being charged by an elephant, I'm not sure) and so we steered towards the right bank, heading for Hippo City.
This, I have to admit, was nerve-wracking. It's one thing to steer a canoe when there's no danger. It's quite another to do the same when Causemore's voice takes on a note of real urgency and you know that there are hippos lurking in the water, some that have been described as "naughty" because they like to chase canoes and tip them." Needless to say, I spent much of the day not breathing, since something in my brain told me that holding my breath would protect me. (As a side note, this doesn't work and makes it much harder to paddle fast when told to do so; it's not a technique I recommend.)
Since one day on the river is much like another (breaking camp, paddling, stopping for meals and naps under shady trees, paddling some more and then making camp again and waiting for the moon to rise), there's no point in my explaining those part of each day. I'll skip on to the excitement, which came at lunchtime.
We had pulled out on the side of the river just across from a large male hippo basking in the sun. A little further downstream, on the same side as us, a whole school of them were in various stages of relaxing, half in, half out of the water. We ate our lunch and then I looked over and realized that two of the hippos were fighting. Causemore took this as a challenge, and told us to put on our shoes.
Like I said before, I had no idea what I was getting myself into on this trip.
I found myself creeping across the grass towards these two massive animals, close enough that I could hear their teeth cracking against each other and see the blood inside their mouths. When we were far closer than I thought was safe, Causemore dropped to his hands and knees and we followed suit, crawling through the dry grass until the only thing that separated us from the action was a small channel and a few more feet of grass.
The power of those two animals was incredible. At one point, one of the hippos had been driven into the water while the other was still on land. The one in the water hooked his teeth into the other's and pushed hard, driving up onto the bank, lifting the second hippo up on his back legs. I have no photos of this because I was crawling towards them while it happened, wondering whether or not I'd gone completely crazy and coming to the conclusion that I was probably just having a good time.
Once the fight was over and both hippos had splashed into the water, we stood up and strolled casually away, grinning like idiots since Causemore, a guide who's been on the river for twelve years, had never even seen something like that before. It was par for the course for us, really. Almost every day, someone told us. You don't see that every day!
Day Three:
The last day on the river, we decided to canoe the rest of the 65 kilometres to the pull-out point, something we weren't supposed to do until the following morning, so that we could wake up in time to go on a small walking safari on our final morning. The day was relaxed; after the excitement of the elephants and the hippo fight, just canoing past schools of them wasn't causing us much stress. We went for a wander through the woods a lunch, but didn't see much in the way of wildlife. In a way I'm glad; it leaves something for me to look forward to if I ever get to have an experience like this again!
Day Four:
We were supposed to be canoing today, but since we had pulled out early, we went for a game walk in the morning and saw some baboons and monkeys and impala grazing in the golden light of sunrise. The drive back to where we had left our luggage was long and dusty and had me wishing I was still on the river, paddling through the cool water and stopping for siestas under acacia trees. When we pulled back into the lodge, I felt like an entirely different person than the one that had left just four days before.
It's hard to explain, really, but I felt bigger, somehow. I fee like I've learned more about the world over the past two weeks than I have in the first twenty-seven years of my life, and it's like I've had to expand in some intangible way to hold it all. I never had a place in me for storing the beauty I've been witness to, never needed a compartment for the sound of elephant tusks crashing together as they fight in the water, never worried about whether or not I'd forget the way the Southern Cross looks in the night
sky.
But now all this is mine to hold, and hold it I will, with all my tenuous strength. And when I grow old, I pray there's someone there to sit at my feet at hear the stories about how granny crawled through the grass to watch hippos fight, paddled away from charging elephants and sat under the light of a moon so bright she almost couldn't sleep at night.
Up next: South Africa.
I haven't written much about life over the last few days because I've been far too busy living it, the breaking bones and sucking out the marrow kind of living.
Causemore told us that you haven't experienced Africa until you've canoed the Zambezi. I think he might be right.
Day One:
We dropped in around 10:30, moving slowly away from the lodge where we'd stayed the night before. The sky was, typically, a cloudless blue and the current carried us along. We took most of the day just to get accustomed to paddling and steering, learning how to avoid tree stu8mps and swirling eddies in the water. This is not as easy as it sounds, especially when neither one in your canoe has any experience. (I am not counting the three days I spent on the Delaware when I was fourteen. There in no comparison even remotely possible.)
When it was time for lunch, we pulled our canoes up a sandy beach and Causemore directed us through the untying of tarpaulins and collecting of water and chopping of vegetables since our canoes turned out to be carrying crates filled with utensils and food and folding stools and even a small metal table. In what would become a routine over the next days, we all busied ourselves at whatever tasks Causemore alloted to us. I think that was the best sandwich I've ever eaten, sitting in the bright sunshine on the bank of the Zambezi River.After lunch, we pushed off again and it wasn't long before we began to encounter wildlife of the larger variety, birds having already been our constant companions. The most memorable of these encounters (at least for this first day; things got better later on) was when we came upon a herd of about tn or so bull elephants. I would have been content watching them munch on the tall grass from the far side of the river, but Causmore directed us into the shore, not thirty feet from where they were. We could hear them chewing, the water splashing and the grass being ripped out by their agile trunks.
We watched them for a while, feeling incredibly small next to their massive bulk and then Causemore direted us to paddle up a small channel, putting us face to face with a young bull about twenty feet away. He looked up from his meal, flapping his ears in warning and then started to charge, water spraying everywhere as Causemore relaxed in his canoe and I seriously considered jumping ship and swimming away through croc-infected waters.Causemore, it turned out, had the right reaction. A young bull isn't tough enough to charge for real and, in true form, the one stampeding towards us pulled up short after a few steps and shook his trunk once more before turning and ambling off.
That experience set the tone for the rest of the trip.
That night, we camped on a tiny island in the middle of the river, all sand and reeds and hippos surrounding us in the water. We made a fire and Causemore cooked us some dinner and we relaxed while the moon rose, throwing our shadows across the sand.It was a good day.
Day Two:
Today was a day for hippos. They're Julle's favourite animal, and the one we were guaranteed to see on the river. This stretch is wide enough that you really do have to pick sides; either stick to the Zambian side and canoe past villages or brave the Zimbabwean side, where you'll have to paddle through a place Causemore has named Hippo City. He explained to us later that he doesn't take everyone through Hippo City; if he can't be sure they'll stay safe, he stays on the Zambian side. But we had somehow proved ourselves yesterday (maybe it was staying in the canoes while being charged by an elephant, I'm not sure) and so we steered towards the right bank, heading for Hippo City.
This, I have to admit, was nerve-wracking. It's one thing to steer a canoe when there's no danger. It's quite another to do the same when Causemore's voice takes on a note of real urgency and you know that there are hippos lurking in the water, some that have been described as "naughty" because they like to chase canoes and tip them." Needless to say, I spent much of the day not breathing, since something in my brain told me that holding my breath would protect me. (As a side note, this doesn't work and makes it much harder to paddle fast when told to do so; it's not a technique I recommend.)
Since one day on the river is much like another (breaking camp, paddling, stopping for meals and naps under shady trees, paddling some more and then making camp again and waiting for the moon to rise), there's no point in my explaining those part of each day. I'll skip on to the excitement, which came at lunchtime.
We had pulled out on the side of the river just across from a large male hippo basking in the sun. A little further downstream, on the same side as us, a whole school of them were in various stages of relaxing, half in, half out of the water. We ate our lunch and then I looked over and realized that two of the hippos were fighting. Causemore took this as a challenge, and told us to put on our shoes.
Like I said before, I had no idea what I was getting myself into on this trip.
I found myself creeping across the grass towards these two massive animals, close enough that I could hear their teeth cracking against each other and see the blood inside their mouths. When we were far closer than I thought was safe, Causemore dropped to his hands and knees and we followed suit, crawling through the dry grass until the only thing that separated us from the action was a small channel and a few more feet of grass.
The power of those two animals was incredible. At one point, one of the hippos had been driven into the water while the other was still on land. The one in the water hooked his teeth into the other's and pushed hard, driving up onto the bank, lifting the second hippo up on his back legs. I have no photos of this because I was crawling towards them while it happened, wondering whether or not I'd gone completely crazy and coming to the conclusion that I was probably just having a good time.Once the fight was over and both hippos had splashed into the water, we stood up and strolled casually away, grinning like idiots since Causemore, a guide who's been on the river for twelve years, had never even seen something like that before. It was par for the course for us, really. Almost every day, someone told us. You don't see that every day!
Day Three:
The last day on the river, we decided to canoe the rest of the 65 kilometres to the pull-out point, something we weren't supposed to do until the following morning, so that we could wake up in time to go on a small walking safari on our final morning. The day was relaxed; after the excitement of the elephants and the hippo fight, just canoing past schools of them wasn't causing us much stress. We went for a wander through the woods a lunch, but didn't see much in the way of wildlife. In a way I'm glad; it leaves something for me to look forward to if I ever get to have an experience like this again!Day Four:
We were supposed to be canoing today, but since we had pulled out early, we went for a game walk in the morning and saw some baboons and monkeys and impala grazing in the golden light of sunrise. The drive back to where we had left our luggage was long and dusty and had me wishing I was still on the river, paddling through the cool water and stopping for siestas under acacia trees. When we pulled back into the lodge, I felt like an entirely different person than the one that had left just four days before.
It's hard to explain, really, but I felt bigger, somehow. I fee like I've learned more about the world over the past two weeks than I have in the first twenty-seven years of my life, and it's like I've had to expand in some intangible way to hold it all. I never had a place in me for storing the beauty I've been witness to, never needed a compartment for the sound of elephant tusks crashing together as they fight in the water, never worried about whether or not I'd forget the way the Southern Cross looks in the night
sky.But now all this is mine to hold, and hold it I will, with all my tenuous strength. And when I grow old, I pray there's someone there to sit at my feet at hear the stories about how granny crawled through the grass to watch hippos fight, paddled away from charging elephants and sat under the light of a moon so bright she almost couldn't sleep at night.
Up next: South Africa.
Monday, August 23. 2010
third night
Sunday, August 22. 2010
second night
Saturday, August 21. 2010
first night
Thursday, August 19. 2010
allegiance
Chobe Safari Lodge, Botswana
We stay at the Chobe Safari Lodge tonight, probably the starkest contrast to the last two days I could dream up if I tried. I've been sleeping in a canvas tent on the sandy ground, using toilets that are no more than holes in another canvas enclosure. Here, the french doors in my room open out onto a deck with a view of the river, and the bathtub is so deep I could have easily drowned. (I did not let this fact deter me and took the first bath I've had in nearly eight months.)
I feel out of place here, and I think it has more to do with the last two and a half years than the last two and a half days.
I find I've become uncomfortable with luxury. When given the opportunity, like tonight, I will enjoy it; don't get me wrong. It's just that, underneath my joy at being able to have a bath, I've got an undercurrent of hesitation, of awareness. Is it okay that I use this much water when there are so many on this continent who die because they don't have access to it? Is it okay for me to stay at a place where they change the centrepieces on the tables for every meal when I know people who don't know where their next meal is coming from?
It's not the first time I've felt this disconnect, and I pray it won't be the last, but coming out of the bush and into the middle of all this throws the contrast into such sharp relief that if I don't move slowly, I'm afraid I'll cut myself.
But everything is still right in my world. One of the women who works here just passed by with a wide smile. So, she said, you are an African lady now. It took me a heartbeat to realize she was referring to the lappa I have wound around my body, but in that moment my soul agreed, and I remembered where my allegiance lies.
Tomorrow we leave for Zambia, and I will finally be back in the first African country I saw, the one that changed everything for me.
We stay at the Chobe Safari Lodge tonight, probably the starkest contrast to the last two days I could dream up if I tried. I've been sleeping in a canvas tent on the sandy ground, using toilets that are no more than holes in another canvas enclosure. Here, the french doors in my room open out onto a deck with a view of the river, and the bathtub is so deep I could have easily drowned. (I did not let this fact deter me and took the first bath I've had in nearly eight months.)I feel out of place here, and I think it has more to do with the last two and a half years than the last two and a half days.
I find I've become uncomfortable with luxury. When given the opportunity, like tonight, I will enjoy it; don't get me wrong. It's just that, underneath my joy at being able to have a bath, I've got an undercurrent of hesitation, of awareness. Is it okay that I use this much water when there are so many on this continent who die because they don't have access to it? Is it okay for me to stay at a place where they change the centrepieces on the tables for every meal when I know people who don't know where their next meal is coming from?
It's not the first time I've felt this disconnect, and I pray it won't be the last, but coming out of the bush and into the middle of all this throws the contrast into such sharp relief that if I don't move slowly, I'm afraid I'll cut myself.
But everything is still right in my world. One of the women who works here just passed by with a wide smile. So, she said, you are an African lady now. It took me a heartbeat to realize she was referring to the lappa I have wound around my body, but in that moment my soul agreed, and I remembered where my allegiance lies.
Tomorrow we leave for Zambia, and I will finally be back in the first African country I saw, the one that changed everything for me.
Wednesday, August 18. 2010
in the bush
Chobe National Park, Botswana
I'm sitting on a canvas chair in front of the ashes of last night's fire. Off to the right, not so far from camp, the vultures are circling over a dead giraffe. My hair is still damp from the shower I just took, water trickling from a canvas bag slung up over a tree branch.
You're probably already getting tired of hearing me say this, but I can't believe this is my life.
This part of the trip has been the biggest adventure so far, since I had no idea what to expect. We were originally supposed to be staying at a lodge just outside the park, but they had overbooked, and so our travel agent substituted the trip we're on now. Mark, we owe you one.
It started with a mid-morning cruise on the Chobe River between Botswana and Namibia after which we had lunch at the Safari Lodge, a place far too posh for the four of us. We climbed into an open safari Land Cruiser and headed into the park where we met the other people staying at our campsite and went on a sunset game drive. This morning, we were up with the dawn for another drive, and we're just relaxing now before we head out again.
Those are the facts, the bare bones of what we've done. What we've experienced is so much more.
I watched a herd of bachelor elephants, sixteen of them, cross slowly over the river to the greener grass on the island. The smallest ones used their trunks as snorkels, just their eyes and the tip of their long noses visible above the water. When they stepped out onto the land, their wrinkled skin was two-toned, like they'd been half-dipped in dark paint.
I saw a baby hippo throw his mouth open, showing all his teeth while his mama looked on indulgently.
I saw zebras, far off across a plain and right near my car, shy and frightened, darting away through the bush.
I watched a leopard lie languidly along a tree branch, fur like velvet in the late-afternoon light.
I held my breath as out car was surrounded by elephants, one fierce mama flapping her ears at us as her baby scuttled for cover under her body.
I looked out across a wide open island where elephants, giraffes, zebras, impala, warthogs, baboons and water buffalo all shared space under the light of a setting sun.
I saw two giraffes fight, their movements graceful, almost in slow motion as they intertwined their necks and butted each other with their furry horns.
I laid awake at night, listening to hyenas scream as they fought over the body of the dead giraffe, not a kilometer away from our camp, their laughter maniacal in the darkness. I saw them in the morning, slinking around in the cold grey light, ugly as sin.
I locked eyes with a lioness, no more than ten feet from my car.
I watched a baby baboon, no more than a couple of weeks old, sitting in the shade of his mama's body, sucking his thumb and looking for all the world like a little old man.
I watched the setting sun sink behind the long neck of a giraffe as the rest of the journey bent forward to drink from the river.
I tracked a male lion through the cold morning, holding my breath as he stalked past our car, his mane golden in the sun.
I heard a herd of impala gather and make short barking sounds to warn off a leopard who was slinking through the trees, not daring to come too close in the face of such an overwhelming crowd.
How have I been blessed like this? I'm sitting here in the middle of the bush and all I can hear is birds chirping and the wind rustling in the leaves. This morning as I brushed my teeth, a herd of kudu walked slowly past, and just a few minutes before that I heard the low rumbling of an elephant calling to his friends.
I'm overwhelmed by creation. God, it seems, spared no expense when He created this part of the world. The animals and birds are so incredibly varied and vibrant, the landscape stunning in its beauty.
The thing is, all this would exist whether I was here to see it or not. For as long as I'll be on this earth, and, I should imagine, quite a while after that, the world will be filled with breathtaking beauty.
I plan to bear witness to as much of it as I possibly can.
I'm sitting on a canvas chair in front of the ashes of last night's fire. Off to the right, not so far from camp, the vultures are circling over a dead giraffe. My hair is still damp from the shower I just took, water trickling from a canvas bag slung up over a tree branch.
You're probably already getting tired of hearing me say this, but I can't believe this is my life.
This part of the trip has been the biggest adventure so far, since I had no idea what to expect. We were originally supposed to be staying at a lodge just outside the park, but they had overbooked, and so our travel agent substituted the trip we're on now. Mark, we owe you one.
It started with a mid-morning cruise on the Chobe River between Botswana and Namibia after which we had lunch at the Safari Lodge, a place far too posh for the four of us. We climbed into an open safari Land Cruiser and headed into the park where we met the other people staying at our campsite and went on a sunset game drive. This morning, we were up with the dawn for another drive, and we're just relaxing now before we head out again.
Those are the facts, the bare bones of what we've done. What we've experienced is so much more.
I watched a herd of bachelor elephants, sixteen of them, cross slowly over the river to the greener grass on the island. The smallest ones used their trunks as snorkels, just their eyes and the tip of their long noses visible above the water. When they stepped out onto the land, their wrinkled skin was two-toned, like they'd been half-dipped in dark paint.
I saw a baby hippo throw his mouth open, showing all his teeth while his mama looked on indulgently.
I saw zebras, far off across a plain and right near my car, shy and frightened, darting away through the bush.
I watched a leopard lie languidly along a tree branch, fur like velvet in the late-afternoon light.
I held my breath as out car was surrounded by elephants, one fierce mama flapping her ears at us as her baby scuttled for cover under her body.
I looked out across a wide open island where elephants, giraffes, zebras, impala, warthogs, baboons and water buffalo all shared space under the light of a setting sun.
I saw two giraffes fight, their movements graceful, almost in slow motion as they intertwined their necks and butted each other with their furry horns.
I laid awake at night, listening to hyenas scream as they fought over the body of the dead giraffe, not a kilometer away from our camp, their laughter maniacal in the darkness. I saw them in the morning, slinking around in the cold grey light, ugly as sin.
I locked eyes with a lioness, no more than ten feet from my car.
I watched a baby baboon, no more than a couple of weeks old, sitting in the shade of his mama's body, sucking his thumb and looking for all the world like a little old man.
I watched the setting sun sink behind the long neck of a giraffe as the rest of the journey bent forward to drink from the river.I tracked a male lion through the cold morning, holding my breath as he stalked past our car, his mane golden in the sun.
I heard a herd of impala gather and make short barking sounds to warn off a leopard who was slinking through the trees, not daring to come too close in the face of such an overwhelming crowd.
How have I been blessed like this? I'm sitting here in the middle of the bush and all I can hear is birds chirping and the wind rustling in the leaves. This morning as I brushed my teeth, a herd of kudu walked slowly past, and just a few minutes before that I heard the low rumbling of an elephant calling to his friends.
I'm overwhelmed by creation. God, it seems, spared no expense when He created this part of the world. The animals and birds are so incredibly varied and vibrant, the landscape stunning in its beauty.
The thing is, all this would exist whether I was here to see it or not. For as long as I'll be on this earth, and, I should imagine, quite a while after that, the world will be filled with breathtaking beauty.
I plan to bear witness to as much of it as I possibly can.
Monday, August 16. 2010
lions and elephants in the bush, oh my!
My own life astonishes me these days. We arrived in Zimbabwe on Saturday at 11. It's Monday at nearly 9PM and in that span of time I have had so many experiences I never dreamed I'd really get to have.
Today, I walked with lions and rode an elephant.
That is a sentence the likes of which I will not often get to write.
It was cold enough that I could see my breath this morning as we huddled together and signed our waivers. (Everything I do these days seems to carry the risk of death or dismemberment. I'm not complaining.) The sun was still low, the sky starting to turn blue after the pastel rainbow sunrise had spent itself in a blaze of orange and gold. Sticks in hand, our weapons against the king of the jungle, we walked quietly through the bush, dry grass rustling under our feet as we circumnavigated big piles of elephant poo.
We came upon them suddenly. Mbote and Monday are brother and sister, only nine months old but big enough to set my heart skipping. Walking alongside them, my hand on Monday's back, was like a dream. Nine months old, and her musles rippled under her coarse fur. Her eyes were golden, her paws still too big for her body. Mbote stalked ahead. We didn't pet hium because, according to our guide, he doesn't know how to play. If you stand near him he will turn around and bite your leg. No need for that.
After some time we left them and went off to find the others, two males both eighteen months old, their manes just starting to grow in tufts around their heads. They were perched on an outcropping of rock, and Phil and I sat down to have our photo taken.
The lion in front of us was quiet, almost bored, but as we sat there I felt a rumbling growl from behind me. I froze as Julle, from a little ways away, let me know that the lion behind me was turning his head and moving towards my back as he growled.
It turns out that my natural response to intense fear is to freeze solid with a look of terror on my face. I sat there, hoping Phil would have time to get away while I was being chewed and wishing one of the guides would give me some kind of instructions.
A few taps with a stick later and it was safe for me to get up and get away, which I did willingly. That was enough of an encounter for me! After we'd finished with the lions and enjoyed a picnic-style English breakfast, it was back down the road to meet the elephants.
Our guide, Wellington, helped us onto Lundi's back; she's too picky to use the platform provided, so she knelt down in the dirt and we clambered aboard. Gracefully, of course.
Sitting there on her back, wandering through the bush at a leisurely pace while Wellington pushed back thorn trees and pointed out impala and warthogs among the trees was surreal. I leaned forward and pressed my palm to Lundi's shoulder, feeling the massive, solid bulk of her under my hand. As she walked, her trunk curled around branches, tearing them off and chomping them up for a snack. Every so often she'd pull her trunk up over her head, the tip of it moving like lips, waiting for the treats Wellington let Phil and I pour into her nostrils so she could shoot them into her mouth.
I find myself in awe of God's creation, surrounded as I have been by parts of it so new to me. I marvel at the creativity that gave us lions and elephants, dry bush and thundering falls, rushing rivers and a million stars overhead. What must He be like to have spoken all this? How can I understand His glory if I'm floored by a fallen creation?
Tomorrow we drive to Botswana to camp out under a sky full of stars, somewhere in the bush.
Today, I walked with lions and rode an elephant.
That is a sentence the likes of which I will not often get to write.
It was cold enough that I could see my breath this morning as we huddled together and signed our waivers. (Everything I do these days seems to carry the risk of death or dismemberment. I'm not complaining.) The sun was still low, the sky starting to turn blue after the pastel rainbow sunrise had spent itself in a blaze of orange and gold. Sticks in hand, our weapons against the king of the jungle, we walked quietly through the bush, dry grass rustling under our feet as we circumnavigated big piles of elephant poo.
We came upon them suddenly. Mbote and Monday are brother and sister, only nine months old but big enough to set my heart skipping. Walking alongside them, my hand on Monday's back, was like a dream. Nine months old, and her musles rippled under her coarse fur. Her eyes were golden, her paws still too big for her body. Mbote stalked ahead. We didn't pet hium because, according to our guide, he doesn't know how to play. If you stand near him he will turn around and bite your leg. No need for that.
After some time we left them and went off to find the others, two males both eighteen months old, their manes just starting to grow in tufts around their heads. They were perched on an outcropping of rock, and Phil and I sat down to have our photo taken.The lion in front of us was quiet, almost bored, but as we sat there I felt a rumbling growl from behind me. I froze as Julle, from a little ways away, let me know that the lion behind me was turning his head and moving towards my back as he growled.
It turns out that my natural response to intense fear is to freeze solid with a look of terror on my face. I sat there, hoping Phil would have time to get away while I was being chewed and wishing one of the guides would give me some kind of instructions.
A few taps with a stick later and it was safe for me to get up and get away, which I did willingly. That was enough of an encounter for me! After we'd finished with the lions and enjoyed a picnic-style English breakfast, it was back down the road to meet the elephants.
Our guide, Wellington, helped us onto Lundi's back; she's too picky to use the platform provided, so she knelt down in the dirt and we clambered aboard. Gracefully, of course.Sitting there on her back, wandering through the bush at a leisurely pace while Wellington pushed back thorn trees and pointed out impala and warthogs among the trees was surreal. I leaned forward and pressed my palm to Lundi's shoulder, feeling the massive, solid bulk of her under my hand. As she walked, her trunk curled around branches, tearing them off and chomping them up for a snack. Every so often she'd pull her trunk up over her head, the tip of it moving like lips, waiting for the treats Wellington let Phil and I pour into her nostrils so she could shoot them into her mouth.
I find myself in awe of God's creation, surrounded as I have been by parts of it so new to me. I marvel at the creativity that gave us lions and elephants, dry bush and thundering falls, rushing rivers and a million stars overhead. What must He be like to have spoken all this? How can I understand His glory if I'm floored by a fallen creation?
Tomorrow we drive to Botswana to camp out under a sky full of stars, somewhere in the bush.
Sunday, August 15. 2010
water, water everywhere
We arrived at Victoria Falls Airport yesterday morning and stepped off the plane into perfect weather. I forgot what the air feels like when it's not saturated with exhaust-laden humidity. Our driver was named Lucky, and Julle tried to get into his seat, forgetting, as we all did, that Zimbabwe drives on the left.
My first impression of Lorrie's B&B wasn't a great one. Tucked away from the worn on a secluded back road, it seemed like a rundown, ramshackle mess. The lounge area smelled of smoke and dust and dog, and the paint was peeling off the ceiling above our bed.
The caretaker, George, called us a taxi and we got dropped off in town, making our way down Livingstone Drive towards the falls. Along the road we bought some defunct Zimbabwean currency off a street hawker, something like a hundred billion for two US dollars. A little further along, another seller, probably hoping to sweeten me up for a sale, handed me a ten-million note. It's for free. Really?!
We hesitated for a moment at the entrance to the falls. The admission price was thirty US dollars per person, and, trying to be wise with out money, we questioned whether it was worth such a steep fee.
The first view alone made us turn to each other, laughing at our foolishness.
How can I use words to tell you about Victoria Falls? How can anything I say come close to capturing it?
They are massive, carving a wide swath between Zambia and Zimbabwe. The water thunders and churns in a way I've never seen. Rainbows are everywhere, the children of the cool, ever-present mist and the perfectly blue sky of dry season. Ever corner we turned took our breath away again. More rainbows, more beauty, the most falling over us like rain, drenching us to the ski as we stood, mouths open, marveling.
I'm sitting here, absolutely lost for words as I try to write about this. I get the feeling this will not be the last time this happens over the course of the next four months.
As we walked back towards the entrance, the sun was lower, casting that late-afternoon glow over everything. The spray stood out like gold and the mist floated down between the trees, highlighted in wide bands of light.
We ate dinner at Mama Africa's Eating House in town. Little cast iron pots filled with beef soup, peanut chicken and antelope stew. Rice and sadza, the closest thing to nshima I've eaten since Zambia. Washing my right hand and rolling the sticky maize-meal paste between my fingers before dipping it into the soup felt more right than anything has in a while.
The sun set and we headed back to Lorrie's where I killed a scorpion in the shower and headed to bed under a pile of blankets because it actually gets cold here at night. The silence is deafening without the constant hum of the generators.
---
Today started early. Breakfast, I think, is what started to change my mind about Lorrie's. It honestly felt like we were staying at a friend's house, sitting down in the kitchen for some food.
We were picked up at 7:30 and the adventure began: whitewater rafting on the Zambezi. Simon, our guide, introduced himself and had us sign waiver forms stating that if we died, it wasn't his fault. He explained what we should do when (he did not say if) we flipped the raft, and introduced us to Kosta, our safety kayaker. I have never taken part in an activity that requires a safety kayaker, and began to feel slightly nervous.
The hike down the gorge to the drop-in was breathtaking. We kept catching glimpses of the river through the trees as we scrambled down through the green of the jungle. I had forgotten how fine the river sand is, how it squeaks under your feet as you walk over it.
Our porters inflated the raft while we dipped our feet into the water and after a quick lesson on how to paddle (which included the instructions paddle or die), we were off. Zambia on our left, Zimbabwe to the right.
The river carves through cliffs that stand straight up on either side, a row of trees like sentries along the top. The water was cool and green under another cloudless blue sky, and a crescent moon, barely visible in the sunlight, hung suspended in a break in the rocks.
We took the first rapids in good form, paddling hard with my heart in my throat. It wasn't until the next set, called the Three Ugly Sisters, that things got really interesting. Simon promised to take us over the toughest part, a Class IV rapid, warning us that the command to 'get down' would be inevitable.
We hit the white water and the raft rushed up a wave like a wall, then down into the valley while Simon shouted at us to get down. What happened next probably took less than two minutes, although it felt like forever.
As I crouched, hanging onto the rope and my paddle, the raft flipped hard, throwing me out. I clawed at the side but a swirl of water wrenched the line from my fingers and I had no time to breathe before I was spinning through the churning waves, no way of knowing which way to swim to get air.
I barely had enough time to be scared before my lifejacket proved its worth and I popped to the surface where I was promptly buffeted by more waves. The raft was close, so I hung on for dear life as roared through another two rapids.
There was no time to right the raft, so we clambered on top and Simon, a note of urgency in his voice, told us to hold on and balance ourselves. Julle's voice came small above the roar of the water. How, and then we were spinning and whirling and hanging on for dear life.
Folks, I survived a Class V rapid on an overturned raft. Not something I thought I would be doing when I woke up this morning.
Once we'd righted our vessel and gotten repositioned, the newly christened Zambezi Swim Team set off again down river. Twice we jumped out of the raft into the cool, clear water and floated through smaller rapids. It was incredible, all of it.
And now I'm sitting on my porch at Lorrie's, a bottle of the most delicious tap water I've ever tasted on the table next to me. The garden is all tangled branches and green grass and the birds are chirping and a ray of sunshine is slanting through the rustling leaves to illuminate my page as I write.
I kind of love this place.
My first impression of Lorrie's B&B wasn't a great one. Tucked away from the worn on a secluded back road, it seemed like a rundown, ramshackle mess. The lounge area smelled of smoke and dust and dog, and the paint was peeling off the ceiling above our bed.
The caretaker, George, called us a taxi and we got dropped off in town, making our way down Livingstone Drive towards the falls. Along the road we bought some defunct Zimbabwean currency off a street hawker, something like a hundred billion for two US dollars. A little further along, another seller, probably hoping to sweeten me up for a sale, handed me a ten-million note. It's for free. Really?!
We hesitated for a moment at the entrance to the falls. The admission price was thirty US dollars per person, and, trying to be wise with out money, we questioned whether it was worth such a steep fee.
The first view alone made us turn to each other, laughing at our foolishness.
How can I use words to tell you about Victoria Falls? How can anything I say come close to capturing it?
They are massive, carving a wide swath between Zambia and Zimbabwe. The water thunders and churns in a way I've never seen. Rainbows are everywhere, the children of the cool, ever-present mist and the perfectly blue sky of dry season. Ever corner we turned took our breath away again. More rainbows, more beauty, the most falling over us like rain, drenching us to the ski as we stood, mouths open, marveling.I'm sitting here, absolutely lost for words as I try to write about this. I get the feeling this will not be the last time this happens over the course of the next four months.
As we walked back towards the entrance, the sun was lower, casting that late-afternoon glow over everything. The spray stood out like gold and the mist floated down between the trees, highlighted in wide bands of light.
We ate dinner at Mama Africa's Eating House in town. Little cast iron pots filled with beef soup, peanut chicken and antelope stew. Rice and sadza, the closest thing to nshima I've eaten since Zambia. Washing my right hand and rolling the sticky maize-meal paste between my fingers before dipping it into the soup felt more right than anything has in a while.
The sun set and we headed back to Lorrie's where I killed a scorpion in the shower and headed to bed under a pile of blankets because it actually gets cold here at night. The silence is deafening without the constant hum of the generators.
---
Today started early. Breakfast, I think, is what started to change my mind about Lorrie's. It honestly felt like we were staying at a friend's house, sitting down in the kitchen for some food.
We were picked up at 7:30 and the adventure began: whitewater rafting on the Zambezi. Simon, our guide, introduced himself and had us sign waiver forms stating that if we died, it wasn't his fault. He explained what we should do when (he did not say if) we flipped the raft, and introduced us to Kosta, our safety kayaker. I have never taken part in an activity that requires a safety kayaker, and began to feel slightly nervous.
The hike down the gorge to the drop-in was breathtaking. We kept catching glimpses of the river through the trees as we scrambled down through the green of the jungle. I had forgotten how fine the river sand is, how it squeaks under your feet as you walk over it.
Our porters inflated the raft while we dipped our feet into the water and after a quick lesson on how to paddle (which included the instructions paddle or die), we were off. Zambia on our left, Zimbabwe to the right.
The river carves through cliffs that stand straight up on either side, a row of trees like sentries along the top. The water was cool and green under another cloudless blue sky, and a crescent moon, barely visible in the sunlight, hung suspended in a break in the rocks.
We took the first rapids in good form, paddling hard with my heart in my throat. It wasn't until the next set, called the Three Ugly Sisters, that things got really interesting. Simon promised to take us over the toughest part, a Class IV rapid, warning us that the command to 'get down' would be inevitable.
We hit the white water and the raft rushed up a wave like a wall, then down into the valley while Simon shouted at us to get down. What happened next probably took less than two minutes, although it felt like forever.
As I crouched, hanging onto the rope and my paddle, the raft flipped hard, throwing me out. I clawed at the side but a swirl of water wrenched the line from my fingers and I had no time to breathe before I was spinning through the churning waves, no way of knowing which way to swim to get air.
I barely had enough time to be scared before my lifejacket proved its worth and I popped to the surface where I was promptly buffeted by more waves. The raft was close, so I hung on for dear life as roared through another two rapids.
There was no time to right the raft, so we clambered on top and Simon, a note of urgency in his voice, told us to hold on and balance ourselves. Julle's voice came small above the roar of the water. How, and then we were spinning and whirling and hanging on for dear life.
Folks, I survived a Class V rapid on an overturned raft. Not something I thought I would be doing when I woke up this morning.
Once we'd righted our vessel and gotten repositioned, the newly christened Zambezi Swim Team set off again down river. Twice we jumped out of the raft into the cool, clear water and floated through smaller rapids. It was incredible, all of it.
And now I'm sitting on my porch at Lorrie's, a bottle of the most delicious tap water I've ever tasted on the table next to me. The garden is all tangled branches and green grass and the birds are chirping and a ray of sunshine is slanting through the rustling leaves to illuminate my page as I write.
I kind of love this place.
Saturday, August 14. 2010
life in a pack
Thursday, August 12. 2010
and so it begins
Wednesday, August 11. 2010
go
Monday, August 9. 2010
finished
Six hundred.
I just e-mailed the last two names out. All six hundred sheets have a little black dot in the corner. People around the world are praying, and this feels so right.
Thank you, all of you. Thank you for responding, for caring about people you'll never meet and for tangling your lives up in the fabric of this place.
I'm heading down to the OR office right now to give back all the pink sheets.
We don't need them anymore.
I just e-mailed the last two names out. All six hundred sheets have a little black dot in the corner. People around the world are praying, and this feels so right.Thank you, all of you. Thank you for responding, for caring about people you'll never meet and for tangling your lives up in the fabric of this place.
I'm heading down to the OR office right now to give back all the pink sheets.
We don't need them anymore.
Sunday, August 8. 2010
580
Saturday, August 7. 2010
fragrant
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