”How long you think its been since they’ve done maintenance on this thing?” I asked nobody in particular as I peered nervously through the grated metal catwalk towards the river below—it was like walking wet plywood, giving under the weight of each step. The English guy in front of me turned and shot me a glare, ungrateful for my attempt to lighten the mood.
The bridge we were about to jump off was the Bloukrans. It stands 216m above a Garden Route valley floor, and proudly claims to be the world’s highest bungy jump. I was in route to Cape Town after a cooking weekend of surf at Jeffery’s Bay, and my South African friends, Terrance and Miles, agreed to stop and watch.
”Don’t you want to jump?”
”Not a chance in hell.”
Funny how every local I invited gave a similar response. As I left the parking lot to brave the bridge, Terrance and Miles discussed loudly how they were going to divvy up my belongings after I went kersplat on the valley floor.
I asked to be one of the first in our group to jump, since the boys were itching to get back to Cape Town. They said I could go second and told me to sit so they could prep me for the jump. Next to the edge, the reality of what I was doing sank in. I cursed myself for not setting out a clean pair of pants in the car.
A worker approached and introduced himself as John, and asked how I was feeling.
”I’m kaking myself, John”
”Don’t worry man, we do this everyday”
He wrapped some faded padding around each leg. I eyed them skeptically, the way you would a Muslim who boasted about making a mean pulled pork sandwich. My reservations proved warranted, as the Velcro of the left padding peeled off without reason.
”Not encouraging, John”
”Oh, I don’t worry about those, bru. My concern is the rope.”
Mine too. I turned and watched the girl in front of me disappear from the diving platform. My turn.
With my pads feeling like a beltless pair of size 40 jeans, John wrapped the rope around them. He explained the knot he was tying; I feigned attention and thought through the fear of slipping through the pads.
They do this everyday. Don’t think the pads feeling loose is unique to you.
Suddenly, I’m hopping towards the ledge with support from John and his accomplice. I hang ten over the edge and look down.
”You ready?”
”Ya.”
”5”
Shit, maybe not.
”4”
What if I slip out?”
”3”
Look cool for the camera.
”2”
Oh my God oh my God oh my God!
”1”
Screw it.
”Bungy!”
I puff my chest out and throw a swan dive. Five seconds never felt so long, 120 km/hr so fast. I forget what I'm doing and become lost in the sensation of the ground rushing towards me. The wind peeling back my eye lids. Then I slow and the cord snaps me back towards reality. And the bridge. I let out a ”yyyyeeeew!” of relief that the cord worked, though I keep my feet flexed—I still feel I'm going to slip out of the pads.
As I settled into my new life under the bridge (kept an eye out for bats, bums, Anthony Keidis), a man in a red jacket and a bandanna over his face descended the rope. Before I could explain that I had left my wallet back at the car and had nothing for him (South African thieves have gone to greater lengths), he attached a new harness and up-righted me. The new position felt even more precarious than before.
”So where can I safely hold on here?” I didn’t want to accidentally clutch the emergency release or something.
”No, no need, bru. Just relax and enjoy the valley view.”
”Ok.”
I let my hands dangle, trying to relax. About as relaxed as Bush doing long division. Maybe the scariest part of the whole experience.
Back on the bridge, flying from the adrenaline, I thanked the crew and rushed back to meet the boys at the car. They congratulated me and asked how it was? Amazing, so fun, yyyyeeeeewww!
Miles handed me the camera, I could hardly wait to check the jump sequence. With visions of Olympic Platform Diving 2012 seeping into my head, I turned the camera on and scrolled backwards to review my form. The swan in my dive must have had broken wing.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Taylor's Travels: South African Adreneline Fix - Dungeons (Part One of Two)
I don’t know what I expected, I mean, they don’t name a surf spot “Dungeons” for its dry-haired, carefree sessions. I knew it wasn’t going to easy. But still, the place was straight raw.
You feel so small out there. Cape Town’s mountains dwarf everything around them and block the rising sun’s light (and warmth) from reaching the water. And the water is no bathtub. It has an eerie blackness to it and the temperature lingers in the low 50’s, quite unsuitable for humans, but perfect for the sea life we saw out there: bull kelp as thick as my arm, jellyfish, leaping seals (I wonder what’s chasing them?), and Sunfish (whose fins stick out of the water and make them look like…uh…the “S” word). There were also penguins, which for me lightened the mood a bit cause as far as I’m concerned, nothing can go wrong with cute little penguins cruising the lineup.
The penguin security blanket was of course to take my mind off of the larger animal I never saw but always thought of. Whitie, Johnny, the Man in the Grey Suit—I’m talking sharks. Never surfed a wave that felt so sharky. Every wave that broke whistled the Jaws tune. Every shadow was the landlord of the sea coming to collect.
Scared yet? I was. And I haven’t even gotten to the waves. Big, powerful, and unpredictable. It was like surfing a beach break with 20-30 foot faced waves detonating all around. That the wave breaks with little rhyme or reason distinguishes Dungeons from other big waves like Mavericks or Todos Santos, which break consistently in the same spot. The first time I got caught inside I felt silly (and short of breath), like I was kooking it by not reading the wave correctly. By the fifth or sixth time I realized it wasn’t just me; Dungeons has a personality all its own, and is quite obviously schizophrenic.
I was feeling fairly brave at this point, surfing at such a gnarly place. Wanna hear something funny though? With all of the uninviting stuff I just mentioned, it was unanimously agreed by the locals that, with the sun shining and little wind, the day was as inviting as Dungeons gets. Just a sec, while my ego deflates. Psshshhhhhh…
There we go.
Even with the realization that I wasn’t as cool as I thought I was, the day was still a blast. The locals helped make it so. Usually with a tight knit group of surfers, outsiders get a healthy dose of stink eye and drop-ins. Not the case at Dungeons. I guess they know the waves will keep people away, so who needs localism? Everyone paddled up to me, the sole unfamiliar face in the lineup, and introduced themselves. They welcomed me and offered advice that I was eager to accept. And like most big wave crews, there were plenty of characters among them.
When I met Frank Solomon in the dark parking lot that morning, he was noticeably hobbling around. I didn’t think much of it, I had other things to worry about. I hitched a ride out on his “rubber ducky” boat and paddled out with him. He then explained that he’d just had six stitches in his foot and it was killing him. He wasn’t about to miss opening day though, and proceeded to throw himself over the ledge of any bomb that came his way.
Then there was Andrew Marr. A bushy-faced big wave charger whose positive energy was so contagious it was almost overwhelming. We’re talking seven year old on December 25 happy. With every giant wave he (or anyone else, for that matter) caught you’d hear boisterous hooting and giggles coming from Andrew. Regarding riding big waves he said, “It just makes you feel good in your heart.” Now, I like to think of myself as a happy guy, but next to Andrew you may as well put me on suicide watch. He’s that stoked.
And as always, where you find big waves, you find Greg Long. The southern California nice guy is one of, and many would rightfully argue the, best big wave surfer in the world right now. He arrived a couple of days before the swell to spend his eighth consecutive winter in Cape Town. I flew in the day after him. He picked me up from the airport, lined up lodging, equipment, and a ride out to Dungeons, going out of his way and acting like he had nothing better to do than hold my hand through the whole process. Once in the water though, he let go of my hand. Then he paddled 30 yards deeper than me and everyone else and caught only the biggest waves that came through. It’s what he does.
We surfed for five hours. I caught seven waves, got spanked on two of them, and was caught inside more than I’d like to remember. But there were no injuries, no boards broken, and no sharks spotted—a successful day of surfing big waves. Everyone was buzzing.
That afternoon, Greg and I sat outside a café in Hout Bay, we ate a big plate of ribs and sipped two well deserved beers. Absorbing the hot fall sun on our faces, we recalled the day’s waves. My heart never felt so good.
For photos from the day, copy and paste the links below.
http://www.surfline.com/surf-news/dungeons-awakens_27201/1/
http://www.zigzag.co.za/site/awdep.asp&depnum=27636_47_11_A151
You feel so small out there. Cape Town’s mountains dwarf everything around them and block the rising sun’s light (and warmth) from reaching the water. And the water is no bathtub. It has an eerie blackness to it and the temperature lingers in the low 50’s, quite unsuitable for humans, but perfect for the sea life we saw out there: bull kelp as thick as my arm, jellyfish, leaping seals (I wonder what’s chasing them?), and Sunfish (whose fins stick out of the water and make them look like…uh…the “S” word). There were also penguins, which for me lightened the mood a bit cause as far as I’m concerned, nothing can go wrong with cute little penguins cruising the lineup.
The penguin security blanket was of course to take my mind off of the larger animal I never saw but always thought of. Whitie, Johnny, the Man in the Grey Suit—I’m talking sharks. Never surfed a wave that felt so sharky. Every wave that broke whistled the Jaws tune. Every shadow was the landlord of the sea coming to collect.
Scared yet? I was. And I haven’t even gotten to the waves. Big, powerful, and unpredictable. It was like surfing a beach break with 20-30 foot faced waves detonating all around. That the wave breaks with little rhyme or reason distinguishes Dungeons from other big waves like Mavericks or Todos Santos, which break consistently in the same spot. The first time I got caught inside I felt silly (and short of breath), like I was kooking it by not reading the wave correctly. By the fifth or sixth time I realized it wasn’t just me; Dungeons has a personality all its own, and is quite obviously schizophrenic.
I was feeling fairly brave at this point, surfing at such a gnarly place. Wanna hear something funny though? With all of the uninviting stuff I just mentioned, it was unanimously agreed by the locals that, with the sun shining and little wind, the day was as inviting as Dungeons gets. Just a sec, while my ego deflates. Psshshhhhhh…
There we go.
Even with the realization that I wasn’t as cool as I thought I was, the day was still a blast. The locals helped make it so. Usually with a tight knit group of surfers, outsiders get a healthy dose of stink eye and drop-ins. Not the case at Dungeons. I guess they know the waves will keep people away, so who needs localism? Everyone paddled up to me, the sole unfamiliar face in the lineup, and introduced themselves. They welcomed me and offered advice that I was eager to accept. And like most big wave crews, there were plenty of characters among them.
When I met Frank Solomon in the dark parking lot that morning, he was noticeably hobbling around. I didn’t think much of it, I had other things to worry about. I hitched a ride out on his “rubber ducky” boat and paddled out with him. He then explained that he’d just had six stitches in his foot and it was killing him. He wasn’t about to miss opening day though, and proceeded to throw himself over the ledge of any bomb that came his way.
Then there was Andrew Marr. A bushy-faced big wave charger whose positive energy was so contagious it was almost overwhelming. We’re talking seven year old on December 25 happy. With every giant wave he (or anyone else, for that matter) caught you’d hear boisterous hooting and giggles coming from Andrew. Regarding riding big waves he said, “It just makes you feel good in your heart.” Now, I like to think of myself as a happy guy, but next to Andrew you may as well put me on suicide watch. He’s that stoked.
And as always, where you find big waves, you find Greg Long. The southern California nice guy is one of, and many would rightfully argue the, best big wave surfer in the world right now. He arrived a couple of days before the swell to spend his eighth consecutive winter in Cape Town. I flew in the day after him. He picked me up from the airport, lined up lodging, equipment, and a ride out to Dungeons, going out of his way and acting like he had nothing better to do than hold my hand through the whole process. Once in the water though, he let go of my hand. Then he paddled 30 yards deeper than me and everyone else and caught only the biggest waves that came through. It’s what he does.
We surfed for five hours. I caught seven waves, got spanked on two of them, and was caught inside more than I’d like to remember. But there were no injuries, no boards broken, and no sharks spotted—a successful day of surfing big waves. Everyone was buzzing.
That afternoon, Greg and I sat outside a café in Hout Bay, we ate a big plate of ribs and sipped two well deserved beers. Absorbing the hot fall sun on our faces, we recalled the day’s waves. My heart never felt so good.
For photos from the day, copy and paste the links below.
http://www.surfline.com/surf-news/dungeons-awakens_27201/1/
http://www.zigzag.co.za/site/awdep.asp&depnum=27636_47_11_A151
Monday, May 25, 2009
Taylor's Travels: Jeffery's Bay
When the guard opened the gate and I entered the property for the first time, I felt like Shoeless Joe Jackson emerging from the corn and onto the Field of Dreams. My version though, cause instead of being in Iowa, I was in South Africa. And instead of overlooking a baseball field, I was standing above a wave I’d dreamed of since I first stepped on a surfboard.
To call Cheron’s place a “surf house” is like calling Death Valley “dry” or Angelina Jolie “cute.” An understatement. Every adjective in the thesaurus couldn’t capture the degree to which it oozes surf.
I came to stay there the same way I came by most of my good fortune in South Africa—Twiggy. Well, actually Twiggy’s girlfriend, Kate, cause he’s never around (this time he was in Chile winning a big wave competition). Kate connected me with Chio (Twig’s cousin) and Gumby in St. Francis. When the surf picked up Gumby and I relocated to Chio’s mom’s house—and oh my, what a house.
For a surfer, there are few homes in the world with such perfect location, location, location as this one in Jeffery’s Bay. It sits proudly at the top of the point at Supertubes, the most famous point break on earth. So close, in fact, that when the waves are big the water reaches the base of the property. Wake-up to first wave takes ten minutes. I mean, it’s so close you could throw a bar of wax at the people about to paddle out! (Seriously though, why would you do that? Not cool). Beyond Supers, through the floor to ceiling windows, you can see Magnas and Boneyards, Super’s sibling waves that, if not for their overachieving older sister, would likely be destinations by themselves. Yep, doesn’t get much better.
I’ll spare you the bedroom and bath numbers—in part cause I couldn’t be bothered to count, but mostly cause it doesn’t matter—the place transcends standard real estate specs. With its location (right on top of Supertubes, I mentioned that, right?) I woulda been content curling up in my surfboard bag fighting off Puff Adders. But this house, as one can imagine (especially one who skipped straight to the photos), was more than a slight upgrade from Dakine digs.
The two-story compound shapes a U so that every room faces the ocean and accepts the rising sun’s warmth like black pavement on a summer afternoon. I’ll tell you, waking up to the sunrise over a six foot set at J-Bay is as good as you’d imagine. In the living room there are two sets of couches; one overlooking the waves and one facing the T.V. If the waves are pumping, there’s no way you’re in the latter set. In between wave watching, you can flip through any of the latest surf mags from around the world. Or delve into the dozens of signed and numbered coffee table surf books that don’t fit on the coffee table, so they’re spread around the place like little treasures waiting to be discovered. Don’t feel like reading? Me neither. Just stare blankly at wooden collectors surfboards that hang out in the corners, or up at the stunning chandelier—no crystal here, it’s made entirely of beach glass.
Not that you’d want to, but you simply can’t escape the sand and surf at this place. Digging into what would be an Apple Upside-down Cake anywhere else is “Jordy’s Pudding” at Cheron’s, named after South Africa’s best surfer, because he once came back after a party and ate a whole pan of it. Or playing a game of foosball, about as far away from surfing as you can get, and your opponent mentions the tense matches that go down between heats when the contest is in town. Freddy P. is unbeatable. Occy is hopeless. But it doesn’t matter if you’re good or bad at foosball, a surf star or surf bum, if you are lucky enough to visit this magical house, Cheron will care for you like family.
Cheron came to Jeffery’s in the 70’s, fell in love with the sleepy, hippie town, and never left. She learned to sew and began making boardies and shirts for local and traveling surfers; the clothes were such a hit that she began her own brand, Country Feeling. Later, she brought Billabong to South Africa, building it so successfully that she beat out companies like Coca-Cola and Nike to receive South African brand of the year. Billabong has since bought her out, so she now splits her time running Country Feeling, a furniture store, and the town itself (the book, Jeffery’s Bay, calls her the unofficial mayor of Jeffery’s). Cheron and Jeffery’s are akin, both built around surfing.
On any given day, when the surf is pumping, people are constantly coming and going. Suiting up. Showering off. Snapping photos. Sipping tea and snacking before another surf. The chatter of great waves caught today and predictions for tomorrow is incessant. It’s like your local surf spot’s parking lot, only for VIP’s and VLP (Very Lucky People, I’m in this category).
In the evenings, people stop in to have a glass of wine and discuss logos and slogans for the Supertube Foundation. Cheron seeks everyone’s input and offers her own like “Make the letters thinner on that girly print. Girls won’t wear anything fat on their shirts, even letters.” Or a WCT surfer on break from the tour will come for dinner. Cheron seems to love the flow of people through the house. She is a consummate hostess, making sure everyone is well fed and comfy. It’s her hospitality that makes this surf house a surf home.
When the waves died and the wind switched onshore, it was time for me to move on. I said my goodbyes, hugged Cheron and thanked her. In her laid back, no worries sort of way she said, “My pleasure, you’re welcome back any time!”
I’m going back this week.
To call Cheron’s place a “surf house” is like calling Death Valley “dry” or Angelina Jolie “cute.” An understatement. Every adjective in the thesaurus couldn’t capture the degree to which it oozes surf.
I came to stay there the same way I came by most of my good fortune in South Africa—Twiggy. Well, actually Twiggy’s girlfriend, Kate, cause he’s never around (this time he was in Chile winning a big wave competition). Kate connected me with Chio (Twig’s cousin) and Gumby in St. Francis. When the surf picked up Gumby and I relocated to Chio’s mom’s house—and oh my, what a house.
For a surfer, there are few homes in the world with such perfect location, location, location as this one in Jeffery’s Bay. It sits proudly at the top of the point at Supertubes, the most famous point break on earth. So close, in fact, that when the waves are big the water reaches the base of the property. Wake-up to first wave takes ten minutes. I mean, it’s so close you could throw a bar of wax at the people about to paddle out! (Seriously though, why would you do that? Not cool). Beyond Supers, through the floor to ceiling windows, you can see Magnas and Boneyards, Super’s sibling waves that, if not for their overachieving older sister, would likely be destinations by themselves. Yep, doesn’t get much better.
I’ll spare you the bedroom and bath numbers—in part cause I couldn’t be bothered to count, but mostly cause it doesn’t matter—the place transcends standard real estate specs. With its location (right on top of Supertubes, I mentioned that, right?) I woulda been content curling up in my surfboard bag fighting off Puff Adders. But this house, as one can imagine (especially one who skipped straight to the photos), was more than a slight upgrade from Dakine digs.
The two-story compound shapes a U so that every room faces the ocean and accepts the rising sun’s warmth like black pavement on a summer afternoon. I’ll tell you, waking up to the sunrise over a six foot set at J-Bay is as good as you’d imagine. In the living room there are two sets of couches; one overlooking the waves and one facing the T.V. If the waves are pumping, there’s no way you’re in the latter set. In between wave watching, you can flip through any of the latest surf mags from around the world. Or delve into the dozens of signed and numbered coffee table surf books that don’t fit on the coffee table, so they’re spread around the place like little treasures waiting to be discovered. Don’t feel like reading? Me neither. Just stare blankly at wooden collectors surfboards that hang out in the corners, or up at the stunning chandelier—no crystal here, it’s made entirely of beach glass.
Not that you’d want to, but you simply can’t escape the sand and surf at this place. Digging into what would be an Apple Upside-down Cake anywhere else is “Jordy’s Pudding” at Cheron’s, named after South Africa’s best surfer, because he once came back after a party and ate a whole pan of it. Or playing a game of foosball, about as far away from surfing as you can get, and your opponent mentions the tense matches that go down between heats when the contest is in town. Freddy P. is unbeatable. Occy is hopeless. But it doesn’t matter if you’re good or bad at foosball, a surf star or surf bum, if you are lucky enough to visit this magical house, Cheron will care for you like family.
Cheron came to Jeffery’s in the 70’s, fell in love with the sleepy, hippie town, and never left. She learned to sew and began making boardies and shirts for local and traveling surfers; the clothes were such a hit that she began her own brand, Country Feeling. Later, she brought Billabong to South Africa, building it so successfully that she beat out companies like Coca-Cola and Nike to receive South African brand of the year. Billabong has since bought her out, so she now splits her time running Country Feeling, a furniture store, and the town itself (the book, Jeffery’s Bay, calls her the unofficial mayor of Jeffery’s). Cheron and Jeffery’s are akin, both built around surfing.
On any given day, when the surf is pumping, people are constantly coming and going. Suiting up. Showering off. Snapping photos. Sipping tea and snacking before another surf. The chatter of great waves caught today and predictions for tomorrow is incessant. It’s like your local surf spot’s parking lot, only for VIP’s and VLP (Very Lucky People, I’m in this category).
In the evenings, people stop in to have a glass of wine and discuss logos and slogans for the Supertube Foundation. Cheron seeks everyone’s input and offers her own like “Make the letters thinner on that girly print. Girls won’t wear anything fat on their shirts, even letters.” Or a WCT surfer on break from the tour will come for dinner. Cheron seems to love the flow of people through the house. She is a consummate hostess, making sure everyone is well fed and comfy. It’s her hospitality that makes this surf house a surf home.
When the waves died and the wind switched onshore, it was time for me to move on. I said my goodbyes, hugged Cheron and thanked her. In her laid back, no worries sort of way she said, “My pleasure, you’re welcome back any time!”
I’m going back this week.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Writer's Block
I guess this is writer’s block, cause when I returned to Durban about a week ago, I had earnest intentions of posting another blog. My whirlwind first couple of weeks in Southern Africa had calmed to a cool breeze and I had experiences galore to document. But I leave Durban tomorrow, and paper is avoiding my pen like it’s filled with acidic ink.
For example, I wanted to write about the two faces of Mozambique I experienced. Tell you about the parties and crowds of Easter Weekend—beers for breakfast and the masses from Jo’burg. About the Afrikaner guy who good-naturedly swiped the beer out of this American’s hand, drank its remains, then bellowed to the barkeep, “Fucking Brandy and Coke…Double!” then made me chug it. How after the long weekend passed and the beaches emptied, I surfed the bluetiful white sand point break solo. I wanted to write about this, but American Idol was on and it was down to the top ten. Allison needed my support.
I wanted also to write about Adriaan, my new friend who I went to Mozambique with. Tell you about his slick ways of getting us to the front of what would have been a three hour border queue, talking fast to officials and distributing Red Bulls and chocolates to appease the people we cut in front of. I was going to tell you all about it, and man, you woulda loved this guy, but the scab on the back of my hand wasn’t going to pick itself.
If not for this damn writer’s block, I would have told you in stunning detail about my trip to Kruger National Park with my friend Lianne and her mother Maryanne. About the pride of lions that guarded the dead rhino from the pesky vultures, and how majestic the giraffes and elephants looked mere meters away from our car. Oh, and the description that never was, of us sipping tea on our front patio watching buffalo meander to the riverbank for a dawn drink? I assure you, you would have been transported to Africa. Been able to smell it. But my book was getting good; the main character, Oscar Wao, had just tried to kill himself. I couldn’t leave him alone.
Who knows, maybe I could have even worked in a couple of amusing moments. Like when Lesley’s four and half year old son, Dylan, asked on Election Day why people were voting again, didn’t Obama just become president? Or when Adriaan called Asian-American Rob “China” (South African equivalent of “Buddy”), only to be politely corrected that he was, in fact, Philipino. Jeeze, you woulda laughed. But cricket was on and I was just beginning to understand the rules. It’s like Baseball on Valium.
For a few days I intended to write about the series of people I’d met that lead me to these remarkable experiences: Jesse took me to a party at Greg’s house in San Clemente when I was 18. A few years later Greg introduced me to Twiggy on the bluff at Mavericks. When Twig heard I was coming to his hometown, he had his girlfriend Kate get me from airport, I could stay at their house. Kate said she’d arranged a ride for me to Mozambique with her old boss, Adriaan, if I so desired. I did, and joined Adriaan and a crew that included Lianne and Lesley; these amazing people responsible for the fun I was having. I was going to link everyone in a thoughtful, flowing way. Even had the first line in my head, “If ever I had doubts that relationships were the key to a rich life, my time in South Africa has squashed them.” I wanted to add to this, I really did. But I was meeting Adriaan at The Bush Tavern for lunch and beers. Priorities.
So I guess you’ll have to wait for this invisible enemy to surrender before I can conquer this blog again and provide you with a distraction from work. It seems South Africa is doing a good job of distracting me from mine.
Author’s Note: I realize that writing these blogs is not my work, but it’s the closest I’ve got at the moment, so just let me have it, ok? However, if anyone has any ideas of how I can make this my work, I’m all ears.
For example, I wanted to write about the two faces of Mozambique I experienced. Tell you about the parties and crowds of Easter Weekend—beers for breakfast and the masses from Jo’burg. About the Afrikaner guy who good-naturedly swiped the beer out of this American’s hand, drank its remains, then bellowed to the barkeep, “Fucking Brandy and Coke…Double!” then made me chug it. How after the long weekend passed and the beaches emptied, I surfed the bluetiful white sand point break solo. I wanted to write about this, but American Idol was on and it was down to the top ten. Allison needed my support.
I wanted also to write about Adriaan, my new friend who I went to Mozambique with. Tell you about his slick ways of getting us to the front of what would have been a three hour border queue, talking fast to officials and distributing Red Bulls and chocolates to appease the people we cut in front of. I was going to tell you all about it, and man, you woulda loved this guy, but the scab on the back of my hand wasn’t going to pick itself.
If not for this damn writer’s block, I would have told you in stunning detail about my trip to Kruger National Park with my friend Lianne and her mother Maryanne. About the pride of lions that guarded the dead rhino from the pesky vultures, and how majestic the giraffes and elephants looked mere meters away from our car. Oh, and the description that never was, of us sipping tea on our front patio watching buffalo meander to the riverbank for a dawn drink? I assure you, you would have been transported to Africa. Been able to smell it. But my book was getting good; the main character, Oscar Wao, had just tried to kill himself. I couldn’t leave him alone.
Who knows, maybe I could have even worked in a couple of amusing moments. Like when Lesley’s four and half year old son, Dylan, asked on Election Day why people were voting again, didn’t Obama just become president? Or when Adriaan called Asian-American Rob “China” (South African equivalent of “Buddy”), only to be politely corrected that he was, in fact, Philipino. Jeeze, you woulda laughed. But cricket was on and I was just beginning to understand the rules. It’s like Baseball on Valium.
For a few days I intended to write about the series of people I’d met that lead me to these remarkable experiences: Jesse took me to a party at Greg’s house in San Clemente when I was 18. A few years later Greg introduced me to Twiggy on the bluff at Mavericks. When Twig heard I was coming to his hometown, he had his girlfriend Kate get me from airport, I could stay at their house. Kate said she’d arranged a ride for me to Mozambique with her old boss, Adriaan, if I so desired. I did, and joined Adriaan and a crew that included Lianne and Lesley; these amazing people responsible for the fun I was having. I was going to link everyone in a thoughtful, flowing way. Even had the first line in my head, “If ever I had doubts that relationships were the key to a rich life, my time in South Africa has squashed them.” I wanted to add to this, I really did. But I was meeting Adriaan at The Bush Tavern for lunch and beers. Priorities.
So I guess you’ll have to wait for this invisible enemy to surrender before I can conquer this blog again and provide you with a distraction from work. It seems South Africa is doing a good job of distracting me from mine.
Author’s Note: I realize that writing these blogs is not my work, but it’s the closest I’ve got at the moment, so just let me have it, ok? However, if anyone has any ideas of how I can make this my work, I’m all ears.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Taylor's Travels: West Africa Recap
The swings have been big here in West Africa. One day I’d be having dinner at the American Ambassador’s mansion in Mali, and the next I’d be eating by flashlight in the humble home of a Guinean man I met in a taxi. One night I’d be over-paying to stay in dingy brothel in Bissau, and the next I’d have my own room and clean sheets at a stranger’s house in the Bijagos Islands. One moment I’d be ready to call it quits after an overnight car ride with 12 people, only to have that mood flipped right side up with a smile from a stranger. Experiences were everywhere; some good, some bad, all rich. Here’s a few.
Eating
Many places in West Africa, it’s not only okay to eat with your hands, it’s the only option. Silverware and plates aren’t available in many homes, so you find yourself with the locals, surrounding a communal bowl of rice with whatever, and digging in with your right hand. And I don’t mean, “eat with your hands” like we do in the States, touching the food with the ends of our fingers, napkin nearby. I mean eat with your hands like grab onto the oily rice and press it into your palm like you’re squeezing a stress ball at work This took a bit of getting used to, but I adapted pretty quickly. Most of the time they’d have some water handy for a post meal rinse, but if not, the inside of my pant leg was a worthy backup.
Memorable Foods
I’ve found that I associate a specific food with each country I’ve visited. Sometimes it’s the food a nation is famous for (like Morocco and its delicious Tajine), but often it’s just the cheap stuff you buy on the street.
I will link Senegal with bean sandwiches. I’d buy them every morning from a street vendor on my way to check the surf. It was so simple—cold beans on a baguette, with a bit of homemade mayonnaise and some hot sauce. The lady would start making it when she saw me walking down the street. It cost about 30 cents.
In Mali I’ll remember the white rice with green sauce you could buy just down the street from where I stayed in Bamako. The sauce was intimidating, it looked foul. Maybe it was the surprise of its deliciousness that made it memorable, because when the peanut and veggie concoction hit the lips, I was hooked. It didn’t hurt that it was only a quarter.
I can’t say that the Guinea’s food left a pleasant taste in my mouth. When staying with local families, as I did a lot in Guinea, you eat what they eat. They eat “toe.” I don’t know if that is how you spell it but that’s how you say it. Not to be narcissistic, but I think my toe probably tastes better than this thick sauce. The issue was not the flavor, it didn’t have much, but the consistency was that of congealed snot. The white rice it topped did little to save the meal.
In Guinea-Bissau, it’s all about the peanuts. The family I stayed with in the Bijagos Islands sold them in front of their home, and after every new batch they’d bring me a stomachs worth of them. You know how in a bag of peanuts there’s always a few that were maybe left in the roaster a little longer and have that delicious cooked taste? All of these were like that. And they were still warm, fresh off the fire.
Favorite Word
Wow. In Wolof, the most commonly used language in Senegal, this means, “yes.” When I first got here I heard it constantly and subconsciously thought that people were just always in awe. Turns out they were just giving the green light for hot sauce on their bean sandwich.
Expat on the Back
I guessed that West Africa would be the most difficult part of this trip, as much for the lack of tourist infrastructure as the loneliness of traveling in a place where westerners don’t usually travel. I was right that few travel here, I met only a handful in the past couple of months, but they do live here. They teach at international schools, work for NGO’s, and are Peace Corp Volunteers. I met so many great Americans here that its taken on a home away from home feeling.
I stayed with the Newton family (from Georgia) in Bamako. The father, Alex, runs USAID in Mali, while his wife Betsy runs the household with a no nonsense, fun attitude that had me taking notes. With the family, I ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, swam in their pool, and played their ten-year-old son, Simon, in ping-pong to determine the champion of the African continent. He stomped me.
After a month of grueling travel, returning to Mike and Devon (from California) in Dakar, I may as well have been coming home. They’ve lived here over a year, teaching at the International School of Dakar. They took me into their home, complete with western comforts like hot water and Internet, as they do countless travelers, Peace Corp Volunteers, and friends of friends. During my ten days with them, they included me in their lives, towing me along to dinner parties and ultimate Frisbee games. When I thank them they just laugh, say its no big deal, they’re just racking up good karma points. If karma is real, these two will have so much stashed away they’ll be passing it onto their grandkid’s grandkids.
Favorite Custom
The greetings in Dogon Country, Mali. When passing other villagers, my guide would dive into this elaborate word dance with them, everyone knowing the steps almost too well:
-Poi?
-Wa.
-Sewo?
-Sewo.
-Umana sewo?
-Sewo.
-Uni sewo?
-Sewo.
-Gui Sewo?
-Sewo
-(In unison) Wa napu Sewo
Essentially this translates to, how are you? How are your parents? How are your children? Sewo means fine. You can’t blame them for being somewhat tired of the whole charade; they performed this greeting with about as much conviction as a fifth grader reciting the pledge of allegiance.
Least Favorite Custom
Pssssst! That’s how people get your attention in here. I’d be walking down the street and hear the noise. I’d turn around looking for the leaky tire, only to find a bus driver waving me towards him, asking me to get on his bus going the opposite direction. The illogical requests that followed it were nearly as bad as the sound itself.
Thanks, but Thanks
It’s customary in West Africa, when eating around others, to offer what you have to the group. I always did this on bus and taxi rides and people would silently take a cookie or candy. No thanks needed; it’s just what you do. What confused me is when I offered someone food and they nodded and said “merci,” and then just sat there. I’d wait patiently with the bag of goodies extended towards them, which made them nod faster and thank me again. Well fricken take one already! I’d think. But this was there way of saying, “Na, I’m good right now.” Even after I figured this out, it was still tough to retract an offer from someone as they’re nodding at you and saying thanks.
Favorite City
Bissau, Guinea-Bissau. The underdog of West Africa, this capital city doesn’t even have electricity most days, but holds a unique charm that sets it apart from its neighbors. There are no high rises, just faded pastel colored buildings slowly corroding from the salty ocean air. Mango trees line the dusty streets, bottoms painted red, green, and yellow, like Bissau’s flag. Aesthetic appeal aside, Bissau’s main attraction is its people. Unlike Dakar or Bamako, when someone approaches you and initiates a conversation in Bissau, there’s no ulterior motive—they want to be your friend. They’re among the friendliest people I’ve met in this world.
Most Awkward Moment
The “disco” in Bubaque, Guinea-Bissau. I was staying with the family of one of the many friendly locals I met in Bissau. I arrived on a Friday, and about four seconds after intros and pleasantries, a young girl in the family asks if I want to go to the disco that night. Since I’ve adopted a “just say yes” attitude on this trip, I said yes. God, a sprained ankle would have been SO convenient that night.
We get to the disco around ten. There’s three people there. The music is blaring and all in attendance are on the dance floor, making like Billy Idol and dancing with themselves in the mirror. It’s still early at this point and I’m convinced more people will come, so I head to the bar to grab a beer, ahem, soda—my host is Muslim. Damn. I sit back down with her and we maintain a delightfully awkward silence for about a half hour. Even if I want to, I can’t converse with her—she speaks no English and my Portuguese/Creole isn’t all there. Around 11:30pm nobody else shows up, so I decide to pull the band-aid off. I drag her out on the dance floor. We maintain a meter between us and bust some moves. I do a sober white guy dance, as loose as rebar. She does an uncomfortable foot shuffle, one eye on the door, as if she’s waiting for her ex boyfriend to arrive so she can make him jealous. Well, he never shows up. Nor does anyone else. When we leave around midnight, the same three people are there, dancing in front of the mirror.
Scariest Moment
Boat ride from Bubaque back to Bissau. They’d loaded the boat full of people, rice, cows, chickens, pigs, and goats. The seas looked calm when we left around three that afternoon, but soon after departure the wind picked up, creating relentless short period swells that slammed the port side of the boat. My worry turned from my electronics getting wet to whether or not I could swim to that distant island. The locals on the boat didn’t worry about that, they couldn’t swim. With each increasingly bigger wave, another person would cry, another person would get soaked, and another prophet would be summoned to protect us on our journey. The towel I loaned to the soaked kid sitting next to me was now covered in his vomit, and the smell from the cow’s waste dominated the sea air. It was a tense five hours, but we arrived to blacked out Bissau unharmed, elated to be alive.
I almost want to include something about how difficult it was to travel by road around here, but the wound is still fresh and I’m not quite ready to talk about it openly. Maybe someday. For now, I’m off to South Africa. It’s bittersweet to leave here, but I’m confident that good people, good waves, and good roads are waiting for me in the Rainbow Nation.
Eating
Many places in West Africa, it’s not only okay to eat with your hands, it’s the only option. Silverware and plates aren’t available in many homes, so you find yourself with the locals, surrounding a communal bowl of rice with whatever, and digging in with your right hand. And I don’t mean, “eat with your hands” like we do in the States, touching the food with the ends of our fingers, napkin nearby. I mean eat with your hands like grab onto the oily rice and press it into your palm like you’re squeezing a stress ball at work This took a bit of getting used to, but I adapted pretty quickly. Most of the time they’d have some water handy for a post meal rinse, but if not, the inside of my pant leg was a worthy backup.
Memorable Foods
I’ve found that I associate a specific food with each country I’ve visited. Sometimes it’s the food a nation is famous for (like Morocco and its delicious Tajine), but often it’s just the cheap stuff you buy on the street.
I will link Senegal with bean sandwiches. I’d buy them every morning from a street vendor on my way to check the surf. It was so simple—cold beans on a baguette, with a bit of homemade mayonnaise and some hot sauce. The lady would start making it when she saw me walking down the street. It cost about 30 cents.
In Mali I’ll remember the white rice with green sauce you could buy just down the street from where I stayed in Bamako. The sauce was intimidating, it looked foul. Maybe it was the surprise of its deliciousness that made it memorable, because when the peanut and veggie concoction hit the lips, I was hooked. It didn’t hurt that it was only a quarter.
I can’t say that the Guinea’s food left a pleasant taste in my mouth. When staying with local families, as I did a lot in Guinea, you eat what they eat. They eat “toe.” I don’t know if that is how you spell it but that’s how you say it. Not to be narcissistic, but I think my toe probably tastes better than this thick sauce. The issue was not the flavor, it didn’t have much, but the consistency was that of congealed snot. The white rice it topped did little to save the meal.
In Guinea-Bissau, it’s all about the peanuts. The family I stayed with in the Bijagos Islands sold them in front of their home, and after every new batch they’d bring me a stomachs worth of them. You know how in a bag of peanuts there’s always a few that were maybe left in the roaster a little longer and have that delicious cooked taste? All of these were like that. And they were still warm, fresh off the fire.
Favorite Word
Wow. In Wolof, the most commonly used language in Senegal, this means, “yes.” When I first got here I heard it constantly and subconsciously thought that people were just always in awe. Turns out they were just giving the green light for hot sauce on their bean sandwich.
Expat on the Back
I guessed that West Africa would be the most difficult part of this trip, as much for the lack of tourist infrastructure as the loneliness of traveling in a place where westerners don’t usually travel. I was right that few travel here, I met only a handful in the past couple of months, but they do live here. They teach at international schools, work for NGO’s, and are Peace Corp Volunteers. I met so many great Americans here that its taken on a home away from home feeling.
I stayed with the Newton family (from Georgia) in Bamako. The father, Alex, runs USAID in Mali, while his wife Betsy runs the household with a no nonsense, fun attitude that had me taking notes. With the family, I ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, swam in their pool, and played their ten-year-old son, Simon, in ping-pong to determine the champion of the African continent. He stomped me.
After a month of grueling travel, returning to Mike and Devon (from California) in Dakar, I may as well have been coming home. They’ve lived here over a year, teaching at the International School of Dakar. They took me into their home, complete with western comforts like hot water and Internet, as they do countless travelers, Peace Corp Volunteers, and friends of friends. During my ten days with them, they included me in their lives, towing me along to dinner parties and ultimate Frisbee games. When I thank them they just laugh, say its no big deal, they’re just racking up good karma points. If karma is real, these two will have so much stashed away they’ll be passing it onto their grandkid’s grandkids.
Favorite Custom
The greetings in Dogon Country, Mali. When passing other villagers, my guide would dive into this elaborate word dance with them, everyone knowing the steps almost too well:
-Poi?
-Wa.
-Sewo?
-Sewo.
-Umana sewo?
-Sewo.
-Uni sewo?
-Sewo.
-Gui Sewo?
-Sewo
-(In unison) Wa napu Sewo
Essentially this translates to, how are you? How are your parents? How are your children? Sewo means fine. You can’t blame them for being somewhat tired of the whole charade; they performed this greeting with about as much conviction as a fifth grader reciting the pledge of allegiance.
Least Favorite Custom
Pssssst! That’s how people get your attention in here. I’d be walking down the street and hear the noise. I’d turn around looking for the leaky tire, only to find a bus driver waving me towards him, asking me to get on his bus going the opposite direction. The illogical requests that followed it were nearly as bad as the sound itself.
Thanks, but Thanks
It’s customary in West Africa, when eating around others, to offer what you have to the group. I always did this on bus and taxi rides and people would silently take a cookie or candy. No thanks needed; it’s just what you do. What confused me is when I offered someone food and they nodded and said “merci,” and then just sat there. I’d wait patiently with the bag of goodies extended towards them, which made them nod faster and thank me again. Well fricken take one already! I’d think. But this was there way of saying, “Na, I’m good right now.” Even after I figured this out, it was still tough to retract an offer from someone as they’re nodding at you and saying thanks.
Favorite City
Bissau, Guinea-Bissau. The underdog of West Africa, this capital city doesn’t even have electricity most days, but holds a unique charm that sets it apart from its neighbors. There are no high rises, just faded pastel colored buildings slowly corroding from the salty ocean air. Mango trees line the dusty streets, bottoms painted red, green, and yellow, like Bissau’s flag. Aesthetic appeal aside, Bissau’s main attraction is its people. Unlike Dakar or Bamako, when someone approaches you and initiates a conversation in Bissau, there’s no ulterior motive—they want to be your friend. They’re among the friendliest people I’ve met in this world.
Most Awkward Moment
The “disco” in Bubaque, Guinea-Bissau. I was staying with the family of one of the many friendly locals I met in Bissau. I arrived on a Friday, and about four seconds after intros and pleasantries, a young girl in the family asks if I want to go to the disco that night. Since I’ve adopted a “just say yes” attitude on this trip, I said yes. God, a sprained ankle would have been SO convenient that night.
We get to the disco around ten. There’s three people there. The music is blaring and all in attendance are on the dance floor, making like Billy Idol and dancing with themselves in the mirror. It’s still early at this point and I’m convinced more people will come, so I head to the bar to grab a beer, ahem, soda—my host is Muslim. Damn. I sit back down with her and we maintain a delightfully awkward silence for about a half hour. Even if I want to, I can’t converse with her—she speaks no English and my Portuguese/Creole isn’t all there. Around 11:30pm nobody else shows up, so I decide to pull the band-aid off. I drag her out on the dance floor. We maintain a meter between us and bust some moves. I do a sober white guy dance, as loose as rebar. She does an uncomfortable foot shuffle, one eye on the door, as if she’s waiting for her ex boyfriend to arrive so she can make him jealous. Well, he never shows up. Nor does anyone else. When we leave around midnight, the same three people are there, dancing in front of the mirror.
Scariest Moment
Boat ride from Bubaque back to Bissau. They’d loaded the boat full of people, rice, cows, chickens, pigs, and goats. The seas looked calm when we left around three that afternoon, but soon after departure the wind picked up, creating relentless short period swells that slammed the port side of the boat. My worry turned from my electronics getting wet to whether or not I could swim to that distant island. The locals on the boat didn’t worry about that, they couldn’t swim. With each increasingly bigger wave, another person would cry, another person would get soaked, and another prophet would be summoned to protect us on our journey. The towel I loaned to the soaked kid sitting next to me was now covered in his vomit, and the smell from the cow’s waste dominated the sea air. It was a tense five hours, but we arrived to blacked out Bissau unharmed, elated to be alive.
I almost want to include something about how difficult it was to travel by road around here, but the wound is still fresh and I’m not quite ready to talk about it openly. Maybe someday. For now, I’m off to South Africa. It’s bittersweet to leave here, but I’m confident that good people, good waves, and good roads are waiting for me in the Rainbow Nation.
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