No reality show could beat this: Maun Life

Maun, Botswana
September 18, 2008
(with photos of a Maun sunset on an August boat cruise on the Boro River and of Audrey, who didn’t seem to mind Maun’s reputation when she visited from Texas last month. The boat driver is James Howard, a motorcross fanatic British fellow who can’t get enough of Maun.)

While Kelly swims the pristine waters of the Indian Ocean at Zanzibar, I am in hot, dusty Maun back into the swing of my volunteer work.

I am looking on the bright side of having left a tropical paradise a week ago.

Maun is an outpost from days gone by, quirky as can be, teeming with legends about “characters.” And the thing is, some of the characters are still alive and walking past the same goats and donkeys as I do most days.

I haven’t seen him myself, but my friends at Karibu Safari say you can pitch up (a South African term for show up) at the bar at the Okavango River Lodge and see the guy without the arm. A lion ate it. The former national beauty queen from South Africa might be there at the same time. She’s missing a good part of her calf, thanks to a hippo attack.

Last night a gristled, bearded man at River Lodge was sitting at the table where my friends were. Kirk, one of Karibu’s owners, told me that the guy has two master’s degrees and a Ph.D. from universities in Germany. He came to Maun and never left, making his living by running a marketing campaign for a safari company. It turns out that a woman I met a few months ago in Savute, a graceful slip of a gal who drives a huge truck and trailer filled with camping equipment for her husband’s private safari company, is a former French horn player in the London Philharmonic Orchestra. Her husband used to be the guide for Lloyd Wilmot, who set up the tented camp 30 years ago that eventually became Savute Safari Lodge. Lloyd is one of the many children of Bobby Wilmot, famed crocodile hunter who died in 1968 after a black mamba bit him in the face. (Lloyd’s sister was attacked by a crocodile that left teeth marks in her boat but not a scratch on her.)

Lloyd is still around somewhere in these parts, and he is known to be fearless. I saw it myself: He cut a hole in the wall of his Savute house beside his bed. He’d put food on a ledge there for the lions; from his bed he could turn his head to the right and see the lions inches away and take their photos.

Friday night I was at the Bridge at Backpackers, the place Prince Harry and Chelsea frequent, when friends pointed out an older bush pilot at the bar. Everyone thinks that’s Lord Lucan, they said, telling me: Go ahead; Google him. Which I haven’t done yet. They said years ago a wealthy British man who meant to kill his wife but killed the nanny instead disappeared before he was brought to justice. Within a few weeks a wealthy British man, very mysterious, pitched up in Maun, to stay. The locals looked at the photos, and they are convinced it is the same guy. And that doesn’t even touch on the CIA stories I’ve heard here, but those are for campfires back in the U.S.

If you go to www.jacanaent.com, you can see a truly grab-bag of a Web site. The businessman in town who sells tasers and Leathermen and sandals and embroidered safari wear for the lodges’ staff and my can of “Gettem” quick defence spray has compiled photos and the history of Maun, for all the world’s viewers.

He writes of Maun, population 94,698 in the 2001 census: “This magnet for rural people eager to find work has been described in many different ways, from being ‘a place too far from civilization,’ tsetse fly infested (in its early days but now eradicated) rumbustious, the last frontier and ‘a dreadful hole,’ to the far more delightful and appropriate, the ‘Place of the Reeds.’’’

You can see I fell short of selecting Tuscany for my sabbatical year. But I can guarantee you that in Tuscany there are no classified ads in the local newspaper proclaiming the need for herdgirls and -- should any of my embattled journalism friends need a career change -- crocodile skinners.

I like the word “rumbustious” to describe Maun. It fits the can-do attitude so prevalent here, the best example of which I found on the front page of The Ngami Times on Friday. “LEATHERMAN SAVES PILOTS: Four hour drama in the air.” A female pilot and her husband had been flying a Cessna 210 to Jao Camp in the Okavango Delta to deliver supplies when the right wheel locked. For four hours, they did everything they could think of to free the wheels, including dumping freight and making three dives from high in the sky to see if they could get the wheels to work. Nothing helped, despite all sorts of instructions from all sorts of people on the radio.

How appropriate that in Maun finally came the magic words from one of the flight company’s’ ground crew: “Do you have a Leatherman?”

When the man in the air said yes, he was instructed to cut a hole in the seat above the undercarriage and then into the floor of the plane. The guy told the newspaper he used the Leatherman “like a tin opener,” and reached through the hole in the floor to free the wheels.

“I was more concerned about saving the lives of my wife and myself than losing a hand,” he told the newspaper.

David and Cathy Kays took out a quarter-page ad in the newspaper thanking every last soul who helped them land the plane, including “To the people of Maun, friends and family for being behind us in spirit and prayers while we circled overhead and for their loud cheering when we made a safe landing.”

They wrapped up their ad with a tribute to Maun, “a very special place with a community spirit that is rare to find. It is thanks to the above that we were able to come out of a nasty predicament. You all gave us the strength to be calm and practical.”

In Botswana, that part about being “practical” means they had been instructed with those all-important, ubiquitous words, “Make a plan.” They did, with flying colors. And now they will be among Maun’s legends, not as quirky characters, but as the latest names on the roster of can-do Africans. Makes me proud to roam around this rumbustious place of reeds and heat the likes of which could melt your toenails.

Is peace at hand?

From the time I was little, I heard the Sunday School stories about peace will come -- or a new earth will emerge -- when the lion lies down with the lamb. I'm wondering if that holds true when the impala lies down with the kitty.

This is Impy, a baby impala who lives at Antelope Park, a lion breeding program in Zimbabwe. Impy doesn't know it's an impala. She and the kitty cuddle up together for naps. Occasionally Impy wants to join guests for dinner, but her hooves slide across the concrete floors, wide apart, like a giraffe's. She slips and slides and goes kerplunk (Does that remind anyone of the movie "Bambi?") She has learned to content herself with hanging around doorways, head poked inside to see what's happening with the people, or letting kitty rest its head on her back.

My friend Kelly Swift volunteered at Antelope Park in June and July and befriended Impy and the kitty, and a host of lions. See her blog KellySwiftinAfrica.blogspot.com for amazing photos of lions stretched across her lap. When I saw Kelly in Tanzania, I asked to have this photo to show you and to spread the word that I, for one, would like to acknowledge a prophetic sign from Impy and kitty. Peace on the horizon. Why not?

Ben, the two of us need look no more...(hum along)

Maun, Botswana
September 14, 2008
(With photos of the approach to Xugana, a pied kingfisher known at Xugana as Spike and the view from the boat as you move through nearby channels)

Sometimes I check my email and find cheerful notes of encouragement: You’re so brave. You’re so adventurous. You’re a risk-taker.

“Aren’t you ever scared?” they (i.e., you) ask.

To which I can only reply, “What do you think!???”

Let me tell you a story about this intrepid traveler.

It happened at Xugana Island Lodge in the Okavango Delta last month. I had settled into the Pilot One room. That’s not the fancy digs for guests; it’s for pilots and management. The accommodation is comfortable but spare and shall we say a bit more rustic than the charming bungalows where guests stay. I like Pilot One. I spent most of June living there during my volunteer assignment.

So I was back. By this stage I had many more days of bush living under my belt, but that didn’t mean I was lacking alarm when in the middle of the night I heard serious rustling in my room. Whatever it was, it was on a mission to dig into a plastic bag. The intrepid traveler - c’est moi - froze in her REI bug hut. My mind raced. What if the varmint jumped on my bed? How many of them were there in the bedroom outside my bug hut?

My first instinct was to shut my eyes tight and try to ignore the sounds. But then I remembered: I am brave. I am adventurous. I am a risk-taker.

I decided to slip out of bed and confront my intruders, whatever they may be. I feared the worst, because I suddenly remembered I had done the unthinkable: I had forgotten to take an apple out of my red plastic bag on the table across the room. (Note to visitors to Africa: Never leave any food –not so much as crumpet or crumb -- in your room.)

Not only did I have intruders on the premises; I had invited them in with a butler and a silver platter.

The noise stopped when I reluctantly crept out of bed. By now I realized that I didn’t have my contacts on, my glasses were who knows where and my headlamp was in the pocket of my fleece jacket on a chair that seemed a mile away. I couldn’t see a thing. Ah, but here was my trusty MacBook beside me. I hoisted it into the air so that I could shine its tiny green battery light in the corner where the plastic bag lay containing the apple.

Horror.

Two gigantic rats had their noses right up to the bag. Big black rats. One’s tail was standing straight up against the wall. The other’s stretched across a tea tray on the table. My heart stopped. Exactly how much bravery could I muster at this moment? I had to pause before I decided, yes, I was brave enough, adventurous enough and risk-taking enough to deal with this situation. I stepped quickly and quietly with my toes curled up lest anything leap on them as I made my way to the cupboard to retrieve my weapon: a can of Doom. Insect spray that is the African equivalent of amped-up Raid was the best I could do, but it would have to do.

I backed up to my bed, the better to be ready to jump atop it. I leaned backward, stretched my arm forward and, with the tenacity of a New York City firefighter, aimed at the rats and sprayed the heck out of that can of Doom. Then I waited, wondering if the critters would spring toward me in their flight to escape.

How odd. Those rats were paralyzed. How could they hold their breath that long? The room was quiet now. I must have killed them with the Doom. But I wasn’t sure. What to do?

Inspect the situation, that’s what. I sidestepped across the room to my jacket to dig out the headlamp. I found my glasses and put them on. Toes curled up, I moved back to my safety zone beside the bed and beamed the light at the bag.

The rats didn’t jump. They didn’t move. They didn’t breathe, nor could they even if they hadn’t inhaled the poison gas. To my utter astonishment, I had faced up to my fears in the dark and confronted not rats at all. I’d pretty much unloaded the whole can of Doom on what turned out to be my sunglasses (hey, one earpiece unfolded and resting up in the air truly looks like a tail in the dark!) and my Coolpix camera (hey, in the dark that strap on the camera case absolutely looks like a rat tail!).

Oh, the indignity of it all, to think that the intrepid traveler finds herself gaining new skill and insight in the bush, only to have her brave act reduced to a cartoon of incompetence. Oh, ignominy.

I tell the tale to say to all of you, my cheerleaders out there: confront your fears, head-on, blindly if necessary. They may not turn out to be as scary as you think.

P.S. I made fun of myself to all who would listen the next morning. (Poor Audrey visiting from Texas suffered through the story more times than she could count.) Upon my return to Pilot One the next afternoon, I found a mousetrap set in my room. I queried Mark and Lizl Carlsen, the lodge managers, to see if they had placed it there to gig me. Good joke at my bumbling expense, right? Heh. Heh.

Nope.

Turns out it was the housekeeper. Well, well, well, it seems that the room did indeed have mice or rats or critters of unknown identity leaving traces of their visits behind.
Let the record reflect: Should the rodents return, no matter how wee the hour, no matter how dark the night, I am ready for them, Rambo-style.

My passion for African skies

I never tire of the African sky.
Here the sun is setting over Kendwa Beach, up island on Zanzibar, where I lay on a white beach with nothing to do but survey the blue waters of the Indian Ocean. Now that I'm back in dusty Maun, I ask myself, "Now, why exactly did I need to rush away from the sea and the skies of Zanzibar?"

I left my pal, Kelly, there. She plans to hang out and write in a room just off the beach. She had planned to come visit in Maun, but when she heard about the heat, the
lack of air conditioning, the venomous snakes that occasionally show up in my storybook cottage (no reptiles have visited yet on my watch, thank goodness)and the flurry of mosquitoes this time of year, she paused and made a different plan that involved staying put.

I'm glad I saw Kendwa and its sunsets. I'll carry them with me on this journey.

From my cottage tonight I will look up at the Maun sky in awe. And, yes, I'll slap a few mosquitoes from my arms as I toast my days on this continent -- all of Africa, from desert to delta to the sea.

If the shoe fits...

Maun, Botswana
September 13, 2008
(with accompanying photos continued in the blog entry below)


With all of my travels in the past few weeks, my blog will be certain to consist of dispatches out of chronological order. No matter. As I settle back into my cottage, I’ll work my way through tales as they strike my fancy.

Today is the day to remember the shoe.

If you look at the Sebego in the photo, you’ll see the ink purported to have launched a movement in Zanzibar’s Stone Town, a warren of ancient buildings with narrow alleyways and artistically carved wooden doors. Think of it as Zanzibar’s French Quarter, only with a Moorish architectural style.

“Obama for President” is written on the shoe. And thus one fan with a single pair of shoes began a chorus of “Yes, we can,” and the establishment of a public patch of ground devoted to Barack Obama.

“If Obama can, we all can!” says the shoe’s owner, 25-year-old Masoud Salim, whose business card says, “VOLUNTEER ALSO EXPERT TOUR GUIDE.”

What a scene. There are two oil (maybe acrylic?maybe tempura?) portraits of the Democratic nominee hanging from a tree. A news article rests underneath one of the paintings. An Obama game board with bottle caps for checkers is painted on the concrete ledge. There are bumper stickers, T-shirts and carved key rings in the shape of the island. Zanzibar is burned in wood on one side; Obama ’08 is on the other. (I couldn’t resist buying the unusual trinket. I figure it’s got historical value, and it’s practical, too, since I now have wheels, praise be.)

Wherever I go I continue to be astonished by the reaction that Obama inspires in Africa. White, black, Methodist, Catholic, Zion Christian Church member, wealthy, poor, Muslim, mixed-race, baggage handler, security company owner, game tracker, government official – whether from Botswana, Tanzania, South Africa, Zimbabwe, Malawai, Kenya, Uganda – you name it, this part of the world is awash in Obama fans. (On the plane back to Maun from Joburg the other day, the flight attendant on Air Botswana pointed to the in-flight magazine in front of me and whispered, proudly, “I’m a supporter of Obama. And that’s OUR Obama.” The magazine cover shot was of Botswana’s new president, Ian Khama, son of a black tribal chief and a white British insurance employee from London. The Oxford-educated chief went on to become Botswana’s first president, Sir Seretse Khama, in 1966.)

Last month Masoud spoke at a gathering of 150 people in Stone Town, a group that included tourists from America who he says changed their support from McCain to Obama after Masoud himself spoke. His take: Obama offers “the great message of hope and change….(His) achievement is that he can inspire change in Africa.”

Masoud said Africans like the fact that Obama’s father was Kenyan, from the country next door. “But that’s not the main thing.” Hope is, he says. “My father insisted on honesty, sincerity and respect. I see that Obama embodies all those things my parents taught me.”

I and my friend Kelly Swift, formerly of The Sacramento Bee and with whom I traveled in Tanzania, got a kick out of the enthusiasm, not only in Stone Town but on the way to the Ngorongoro Crater on Tanzania’s mainland. In Karatu we stopped to take photos of enterprising entrepreneurs who dolled up their curio stands with political slogans. I’m not sure if the Obama stands are helping sell any additional wooden giraffes or beaded necklaces, but I have to believe people like us will keep stopping for the political photo op of the season. Dare I say of the century?

Tanzania

Need I say more about the Ngorongoro Crater area of Tanzania?