10 Hours In A Train

There is still something exciting about travelling by train in Africa. Whereas in Europe it is now simply an often unreliable alternative to avoiding the daily traffic jams, unless you’re on the Trans-Siberian Express I suppose, and has lost most of its appeal, in Africa it is still an almost mythical in which to explore the continent. The unreliability is definitely an issue here too, more so than anywhere else probably, but since that is part of the adventure of travelling by rail in Africa it should not present a source of worry for anybody willing to take to the tracks. I would not be too surprised if I had to wait as long for the train to arrive as the actual journey would take, which in this particular case would have been a bit frustrating (see title). Luckily this would not be the case now as, with just a half-an-hour delay the dusty but decent looking sleeper-train pulled into the Kimberley station.

I had first travelled to Kimberley because my eloquent guidebook persuaded me to do so. As painful the colonial past has been, the unethical romantic in me could not help but be swayed by the images conjured up by my irritating guidebook of colonial-era pubs, Victorian houses and (why the hell not) the slim but existent chance of finding my fortune by tripping over the world’s biggest diamond. I’d have a better chance of falling into an abandoned mineshaft or a big hole. As it turned out neither happened but the smoky pubs, Victorian balconies and down-on-their-luck diamond miners were very much present.

Not having much time to spend here before the train arrived, I glanced at some of the sights in Kimberley (most involving diamonds in one way or another) and then scurried into the nearest public house. The “Star of the West” it was called, obviously so named by homesick Europeans, and it was pretty much the exact opposite of what it name seemed to imply. Old, rough and atmospheric – it was literally atmospheric as a thick blue “ozone-layer” greeted me at eye level – this was the kind of place I was hoping to find. Sturdy wooden doors, scarred tables and chairs that looked ideal for smashing over somebody’s head after they cheated you in poker, old posters and newspaper clippings, and a clientele which looked not unlike Willy Nelson, the Star has it all. The only time I’d been in a place like this was in Disneyland’s “Wild West” area, which does lose a bit of its magic as one grows older since it’s all fake. This place certainly was not however and as I sat nursing a cold Castle lager I imagined Cecil Rhodes walking in for his afternoon tea or a lucky miner buying a round for the whole pub with profits from his claim. Apparently the Star was a men-only pub until the 1980’s…not sure why that’s relevant to mention, but I thought I’d throw it in there.

I avoided saying lines such as: “Say that to my face you yellow bellied dog”, “Draw!” and “What do you mean you don’t have sasparilla (sp?)?” and made my way to the train station to catch the Trans Karoo to Cape Town.

The First

Due to some very unreliable and highly dangerous urban trains, the railway system in South Africa has gotten an undeservedly bad reputation. The overnight trains between the larger cities are both safe and comfortable. Some of the most luxurious trains in the world actually run in the country, the Blue Train amongst them, but unfortunately my budget was a bit thin for these palaces on wheels. The more affordable trains are surely more interesting as the passengers are from all walks of life.

I was placed in a 6-person compartment, nice and tidy in a not entirely unattractive attempt at art deco. It wasn’t too busy and I was vaguely beginning to hope I would be the only person in this compartment for the nighttime portion of the journey. I do enjoy observing people but also like my own space; courtesy of being a single child I suppose. Unfortunately it was not to be. But imagine my surprise when in walks not a businessman from Gauteng or a surfer from Australia, but a slightly punk-rock looking 20-something year old blonde girl. With a nonchalant look (I think) I nodded to her and then immediately, but again nonchalantly, checked my ticket to make sure I was in the right compartment. Indeed I was, so either she must be mistaken or there was a mix-up in the ticket office (very likely). There are no mixed sleeping compartments on these trains so having Avril Lavigne’s older more serious sister walk in was unexpected.

I now faced a bit of a dilemma. Should I mention to her that there might be a mistake with our tickets since she is obviously a girl and I am (last time I checked) a guy and we are not supposed to be in a carriage together? Or should I just let it “slide” and be “cool” about it (two concepts I’m not particularly strong at)? I decide to do none of the above by taking out my Walkman, raise the volume and stare out the window. This is typical behaviour for the individualistic young European and I have perfected it. Unfortunately these do-not-disturb-insecure-young-person signs are lost on my companion and after a few minutes she begins to move her lips in my direction which (since I forgot the pretend-to-be-asleep-ploy) I cannot ignore. After realizing that I would probably understand what she is saying if I remove my earphones, I turn off some random rock ballad I was listening to and smile at her apologetically.

She smiles and asks me, obviously for the third or fourth time, if I would mind opening the window since the air-conditioning was having difficulties. Of course I am happy to do so and after picking up my Walkman, which fell off my lap as I stood up, I ask her where she is heading. The girl is also going to Johannesburg, on her way home from visiting friends in Kimberley. We sit silently again for a while and I continue staring at the seemingly endless, but not very enticing, Karoo plains. My eye-shadowed compartment buddy takes out her own headphones and I automatically start wondering about what she might be listening to: Black Crowes, Foo Fighters, perhaps Panic At The Disco. In the end I settle for Him. I then attempt to get her attention, fail, try again, and she takes her headphones off at last. It turns out she’s listening to AC/DC. As I covertly switch from Air Supply to Evanescence on my own music player I express my respect at her choice of tunes. The following two hours are spent talking, arguing and commiserating on the fate of pure rock music and childishly making fun of brainless pop celebrities. I have come across a musical soul mate and the long journey suddenly does not seem so dull anymore. The conversation eventually turns to more current affairs – the state of South Africa and the uncertain political twists-and-turns of recent weeks. She tells me that she is worried about the possibility of recently elected ANC president Jacob Zuma becoming the state president. His choice of singing militant songs at his rallies that were used during the struggle against apartheid also troubles her. As a young white person with some intelligence she realizes that she is the minority and will have to live with a predominantly black government. Her worries about Zuma’s character seem to be justified as well as the ANC leader has just been charged with fraud, racketeering, money laundering and other such shady concepts. But what my politically astute new friend is most concerned about is a possible back-lash by the Zulu population who are overwhelmingly supportive of Zuma. Regardless she wants to graduate (professional photography, very cool) and stay in South Africa, which sets her apart from most young white people I’ve met so far.

We’re now about halfway to Johannesburg, the sun setting in an unchanging landscape of flat, sparse plains. A setting sun immediately reminds me of an age-old South African tradition: sundowners. I tell the girl I will be right back with a few beers. She just smiles and nods. After a quick bathroom break – which is always fun in a rambling train – I make a selection of South Africa’s finest at the bar. I notice the train has now come to a stand-still at a tiny station, the name of which I never learn. By the time I have made my way back to our compartment – the bar wagon was obviously on the other side of the mile-long train – we’ve left Lonesome Ville behind us. As I open the sliding door the beers in my arms suddenly lose all their appeal. The girl is not inside anymore. There is however a note and a present – a slightly musky black wristband. On the note: “Thanks for the company and there’s no shame in listening to Air Supply! See you on the flip side.” And it looked like I had a room for myself after all.

Along The Great Grey-Green Greasy Limpopo River (Part 1)

The kids had barely left the park and I had barely time to catch my breathe when I went off to explore ("to visit" sounds a bit unadventurous) the Limpopo province with my fellow GVI volunteers. This annual trip had been postponed many times now - at first it was meant to be a mid-year break but it had turned into an end-of-year break instead. No complaints here however, I felt like getting away, far away preferably, for a little while so this was perfectly timed.

It began in Upington airport, famed for allowing hunters easy access to the north-west of South Africa and noticeable lack of a bagage-claim area. Your luggage will be sort of "dumped" next to the check-in counter (one of two)...you get the idea. So here I boarded a tiny, healthy looking but rather bouncy airplane. First stop: Cape Town. Now for those of you with some geographical knowledge of South Africa this will not make sense. Since my destination was Johannesburg (north-east) and my current location is the north-west it does not make a lot of sense to go all the way south only to fly back up again. Actually it does make sense, and not only because the direct flights to Jo'burg (or Jozi) were full, but because flying this tedious triangle cost exactly the same as a direct flight. I've not quite worked out why this is, but when I do you will be the first to know.

Arriving in Jo'burg is always exciting. Will I get mugged? Held up at gunpoint perhaps? Maybe even, cross my fingers, car jacked?! One can only wish. Alas, since I was not flashing my camera around or driving a rented BMW I admit I did not make for an interesting target. In all seriousness though, there is a lot of paranoia attached to Johannesburg and if you pay too much attention to it you will never be able to enjoy yourself in this very cool town. I was staying one night at the Backpacker's Ritz in the Hyde Park area of the city, one of the rich northern suburbs. Despite its name and location this hostel is ridiculously affordable (R110 for a bunkbed) and a very chill place to use as a base for exploring the city. Even spending an afternoon at the Ritz is interesting since there are usually a few very colourful characters hanging around. Of course I did neither exploring nor "hanging" since I was completely defeated from the journey and the Kids In Parks programme. After catching up with two of my colleagues over a few beers I was about ready to collapse in the lap of our charming waitress (call me!) but I controlled myself and fell into a deep sleep on one of the bunkbeds.

The next morning we awoke to the friendly face of Sting. Rubbing the sleep from our eyes we quickly realized it was our coordinator, Pete, from GVI who has a - it has to be said - passing resemblance to the singer. Showered, packed and paid we made our way out of the hostel only to be greeted by our trusted friend, the GVI Siyaya (minibus). Oh and yet another GVI volunteer, Madelen, was also present. There were a few tears (mostly mine) at this happy reunion, but we quickly made our way to the airport again to pick up the last member of this motley crew - always wanted to use that word - Ben (from the States) who had just driven up from Golden Gate Highlands NP in the Freestate. We all got along so well at once it felt as if the past ten months had not really happened and we were still on our training in the Kruger. One piece of advice about the Jozi airport however: do NOT make a wrong turn or you will be forced to drive aimlessly until you actually reach a Zimbabwian borderpost. So know where you are going, that's all I'm saying...


With high spirits (and a lot of wine), cameras at the ready and bellies filled with Swedish liquorice we began the first leg of our journey, to Marakele National Park...
















Pic: Eventually found Ben at the airport.
















Pic: Mad & Kristel in our precious Siyaya

Pic: Jenny doing what she does best!
















Pic: Pete doing his best Eminem impersonation. Word.
















Pic: She took us all the way.

Kids, Kids & More Kids In Parks

I know what you were thinking: he's given up his writing like so many others. It's fun for a while but then you invariably get tired of it because you haven't been keeping up with your thoughts or realize that nobody is reading your ramblings. Unfortunately I have not given up yet, I was simply...unavailable...for a few weeks due to several hundred schoolchildren invading my every living moment.












Pic: The PR picture in front of the KiP bus.


On the first of November we began our Kids In Parks (KiP) programme in Augrabies Falls. This ambitious project set up by the national parks and several sponsors is intended to allow all schools within a certain distance to visit their park free of charge for three days and two nights. Obviously we don't let these undersized balls of adrenaline run free for three days - we prepared a fun-and-fact-packed schedule for each and every school...which we almost never stuck to since this is Africa after all. A schedule in Africa is like David Blaine's latest stunt: impressive, with the best intentions, but it's just not going to work. In any case it did give us an idea about how to fill up the days. We had powerpoint presentations, a three-legged water race, a national parks game, talks on alien plants and the foodchain, in-the-field water tests, sunset drives in the park, a nature concert and of course a guided walk to the falls...plus we also had a lot of shouting, laughing, nervous breakdowns, monkeys, blood, sweat and tears.












Pic: Marisa giving the obligatory powerpoint...


Now I can go on with some amusing anecdotes, like the time we scared the living daylights out of three boys who just did not want to be quiet in their tent by scratching our nails over the canvas or the time I pretended to be a black eagle to illustrate how these birds catch their prey. But I won't. Since I do have a lot more to write I will keep to what mattered most: what we learned from the children. You see the overwhelming majority has never set foot in a nature reserve or national park ("how is that possible? there are so many in Africa!") and is even less aware what their purpose is aside from attracting a great deal of pasty looking foreigners who regularly drive past their villages. The Kids In Parks project allows them to finally witness their natural heritage for themselves and without having to pay or worry about a single thing. Just show up at school in time to catch the KiP bus, bring a sleeping bag and you'll be good to go!












Pic: Elton, our head ranger, doing water testing with children at the river.

What has struck me most after these four weeks is the unbelievable variation in educational level between children of the same grade/class. Most children came from grades 5, 6 or 7 - which means most were between the ages of 10-14, although it wasn't uncommon to find 14 year olds in the same grade as 11 year olds. This is due to an utterly insane education policy which states that if you've failed a grade twice in a row you automatically move up a grade...makes sense doesn't it? You fail, twice - the level is obviously too difficult for you, fine - you get rewarded by going up in the exact same level. Wait...what? Alright I hear you say, but the government probably does not have the resources to establish different levels of education. That might be true but that's not the government's excuse for having a single education standard: equality is the excuse. You see, "they" reason that establishing different levels of education or (God forbid) special needs classes for mentally disabled or dyslexic children would be unequal. Such a system would automatically create inequality since not all children would get the same level of teaching. (if this is starting to make sense to you please let me know)












Pic: Hilarity ensues during the water-races.


This equal (hahahaha...) system is the cause for some of the children I met to be very behind on their classmates. A child about to begin secondary school would be expected to read and write adequately in at least (in our area's case) Afrikaans, and have some understanding of English. Well you'd expect wrong. In one grade 6 class there were a few who could barely manage a legible sentence in Afrikaans whereas one boy was reading and writing in perfectly acceptable English! Same frigging grade people!! I now understand their teacher's challenge a little better: when in a class of 30-40 children some are very much ahead of the pack and others are way behind, how do you give each the right level of teaching? It can't be done. At one point during the programme we hand out exercise books to all and do some activities related to nature and the park: such things as writing a poem, doing crosswords or reading a story and answering questions. In my group (around 20 kids usually) I would be helping two boys spell the word "kudu" while a bit later explaining some of the careers in the park in English to another group. With some I would have difficulty having them remember their own province, let alone the 5 national parks which are located there, and with others I'd be going over the different European countries. Same grade.











Pic: Posing with a few marshmellows.



Poverty is of course an issue with which most people around here struggle. Since we (me, my supervisor Angela and our two conservation students) shared every single moment of the day with these children we all were confronted with this and while I think we had all become used to what life is like around here we were still in for a few unpleasant surprises. The little boy who had only an old dusty blanket to sleep under immediately springs to mind. On the morning of the third day the children have to sweep their tents (three people per tent) clean. I noticed that one of the stretchers (army beds) in one of the tents was covered in sand. Not thinking about the cause I asked the boy if he would help me take out the stretcher so he could clean it. Only after this was done I noticed his dirty blanket, also covered in sand. This was so because at home he (obviously...) sleeps on the ground, hence the sand...











Pic: A winning water-race team with me, Lize and Marisa.


There were many moments when we nearly lost our tempers and some moments where we actually did - I never thought I'd say the "f" word in front of kids but everybody has their limits. There were days when we were all at the end of the road. The same meals every day, which were a treat for the children but became somewhat of a challenge for us (sausage and beans for the tenth time at breakfast...whoopee!). The long days and the short nights, which we often spent in a tent of our own...there would be much to complain about if it wasn't for the fact that we had some amazing children visiting us, learning from us and appreciating what we were trying to do. Some will never learn of course but that is true anywhere, most were very interested and a few are now considering a career in the national parks. Nearly all enjoyed themselves regardless of what we were teaching them, which is also a positive result I think. The hugs, "thank you's" and "miss you's" at the end of those three days made it worth it, as well as the knowledge that we were able to give them something which they rarely, if ever, get: generosity and (for just three days) freedom from worry.













Pic: On the boardwalk with one of my groups.












Pic: Alien plant talk by Marisa.


The goal to give these children an unforgettable learning experience has been achieved, but I admit that I have probably learned as much if not more from the children in return. By far the best experience I have had this entire year and one that will stay with me forever. The letter me and Marisa received from one school says it all really and is now one of our most prized possessions (hope you can read Afrikaans).

Curiously South African

Noticeable differences between life in Europe and life in South Africa as experienced by a volunteer.

- One can be thrown in jail for using plastic bags. (Littering carries a life-sentence I think)
- South Africans drive on the left side of the road. This is not a huge problem, despite being completely daft, since they do the same in Botswana and Zimbabwe.
- South Africans do not like British people. (Curious given the above statement)
- 83% of white South Africans feel a need to live in the UK. (Even more curious given the above statement…but at least they know how to drive)
- It is a sign of manhood to drink mixed drinks. Coke and rum or a G&T are preferred. Beer is for girls.
- Ketchup is an unknown substance. You want some to go with your fries, ask for “tomato sauce”.
- Riding in the back of a pick-up truck or “bakkie” is common practice and even legal. Piling it full of children is preferred as they tend to fly further but don’t hit the ground as hard as an adult.
- If it don’t say “Hilux” on the back of your truck, it don’t mean shit son.
- Overland safari trucks are legal target practice to ease in that new .375 rifle or sub-machine gun.
- Traffic lights are called “robots” in South Africa. Yep, they really are on top of the latest technological advancements. VHS players are the ultimate in home entertainment.
- One can buy nearly everything at the robots. In dire need of a coathanger or a cell-phone charger? Just stop at the red light, bru.
- People casually use highways as sidewalks. Hilarity ensues.
- There are 11 official languages. Those Belgians are whiny little girls.
- The official past time for all South Africans is “braai-ing” or having a barbeque.
- Use of a gas braai/bbq is punishable by death and mockery.
- Using coals and firestarters (those white cubes) is how women and insecure men light fires.
- “Manly men” only need wet wood, a mixed drink and some toenail clippings to start a roaring fire that will last for 27 days.
- There is a National Braai Day. Archbishop Desmond Tutu is its patron. Seriously.
- South Africa can boast to having both the best and worst politicians in the entire world.
- Every single televised event, be it sports, glamour or music is sponsored by one of the, or a combination of, the following companies: SASOL, Vodacom or SAB Miller.
- South Africa is innovative: they invented Kreepy Krauly’s to keep our pools clean (and the kids entertained), x-rays and managed to first successful heart transplant. To top it off they also invented some amazing AIDS cures such as onions, potatoes and garlic.
- Best meat tradition in the world. Those Germans have got nothing on this. Boerewors is the finest sausage on earth and biltong (dried meat) kicks jerky’s ass every time. South Africans keep the most impressive dogs in the world. Most of them can also eat you whole. The boerbul comes first to mind – think hound of the Baskervilles only bigger, or Staffordshire terriers or steffies – my personal favourite cuddly toy and good for taking out cobras, lions and burglars.
- South Africa can boast more ways of killing a person than any other nation, past, present and future: the deadliest snakes on the planet (black mamba anyone?); the most aggressive land mammals (just try the Big 5), the most lethal mammal on the continent, the hippo; malaria (800,000 African children a year); AIDS (just eat an onion!); the most dangerous roads after Iraq; the dodgiest cities in Africa...and killer lightning which fries 200 people annually. Beat that suburbs of Paris!!

Now all these facts contribute to making life down here very interesting, although sometimes you can't stop to think how interesting something is because you better start running.

Colourful - Local Observations Part 2

Politically correct definitions of whom or what a person is have always been controversial and prone to changing on a whim for no apparent reason (in most cases). Nowhere is this more of an issue than in South Africa. The term Rainbow Nation is not just a colourful way to describe the new and much improved South Africa, it is in fact an accurate description of its population, which is indeed very diverse. Over the centuries all sorts of people thought the tip of Africa would be a good place to live including Europeans, Arabs, Indians, Asians and of course Africans themselves.

Coincidentally, the Bushmen or Khoi-San people were the lucky ones who got here first – in Southern Africa and even the world if some archaeological research is to be trusted – but were pretty much kicked around by everybody that followed. Now only a few hundred remain scattered around the Kalahari area. The cliché of first-come-first-serve definitely did not apply to these people.

Anyway…While back in the good old days of migration, colonialism and bloodshed it was relatively easy to put a label on people (white, bossy types were obviously European; darker coloured people that ran all the shops were obviously Indian and people that kept bugging you about the direction of Mecca were of course Muslim), nowadays it is not as simple anymore. Calling a white South African a European is a good way of getting your teeth removed as is arguing that Zulu’s were colonialists from further north. In my opinion I would prefer it to call all those people with an African passport…guess…African! More accurately people should be identified by their home country, so somebody from South Africa is a South African regardless of colour. Makes things a lot simpler and, the magic word, more equal.

The South African government tends to agree with me on this – equality is key in this country after all. But (you felt that coming didn’t you?) this does not seem to apply to employment. In the employment game it is all about colour – where you’re from is irrelevant, skin is what matters! The apartheid regime left the majority of the population in complete poverty by making everything the “ previously disadvantaged” were given worth less: their education was severely under funded, work could only involve menial tasks and the land given to them by the government was the most infertile of all. When the democratic government finally replaced this farcical brotherhood these inequalities had to be mended naturally. Allowing people to live anywhere they wanted to and giving everybody a chance to have a career in any profession of their choosing was relatively easy – educating the previously disadvantaged is slightly more difficult since it takes more time, costs a lot and would need an army of competent teachers that did not exist.

Try as you might, training and educating all the blacks, coloureds and Indians to a level where they can compete with the white population for jobs has to take time. There is not any quick fix, just patience and the knowledge that things will eventually even out, but the new government had other plans. Positive discrimination! Or as they put it: (black) empowerment. This implies that if a white man and a black man apply for the same post, be it as street cleaner or bank clerk, the black man will be preferred. Regardless of the fact that discrimination is a word that can only imply something negative, this type of preferential treatment undermines black people, white people and the education system itself. Many black people working in jobs previously reserved for whites are often regarded as incompetent because people suspect they only got their current job due to the colour of their skin; which, to be brutally honest, is sometimes indeed the case but negatively impacts those who worked hard to win their position through merit alone. White people on the other hand, aside from obviously being discriminated against, have become disenchanted with their new country since they no longer see any opportunities for themselves: they’re no longer the “corporate colour” and they know it. Often I have met white people who asked me why I came to their country, in a tone of voice that implies I must have some kind of mental problem because I cannot see that there is no future for young white men anymore. And finally the education system suffers as well. So much political weight and precious finances have been wasted on this empowerment scheme that could have gone a long way to adjusting persisting inequality in primary and secondary schools. Schools that have predominantly white pupils are still able to teach on a level not far removed from the highest standards in the developed world (for your information: this country is not a developed country…by conventional definitions anyway), whereas black or coloured schools are scraping by at such a pitiful pace that most are not even able to afford enough chairs, desks or basic teaching materials. Let alone organize a field trip, to a national park say, unless one government ministry or another subsidizes it. Once graduated the white kid moves overseas where he or she has a chance at getting decent employment and the black kid has to stay behind in a job he or she is not trained to do because of a poor education.

Getting an unequal start will most likely haunt you for the rest of your life unless you fight like hell to get somewhere where you can make a difference – at the very least offer your own children a better chance. Now this might be applicable to any country but in most it is first and foremost wealth that separates those who have a chance from those who do not – in South Africa, even after all this time, it is still your colour that decides where you will end up. For now.

The Big Guy's Gone

He had quietly walked up the stairs and kneeled at our sleeping bags before we even knew he was there. Nudging us awake, he whispered loudly: would we like to go hunting? Half asleep, half awake I searched in the dark for my phone. The blue screen lit up: 12.00am, midnight. It was the first night with just the three of us left on top of the watchtower; the others had left the previous day amidst fond farewells and a few tears. We were keen to accompany him on this midnight adventure, feeling privileged he now considered us worthy. Feelings of privilege do not imply feeling like getting dressed however so we stumbled down the stairs in our pyjama’s, sleeping bags secured under our arms as we climbed on the back of the bakkie. We would have been the most improbable and the most under-dressed hunting party in the history of the universe were it not for him compensating for our comical appearance by his sheer presence and vast experience. Even if we had dressed in “Greenpeace” t-shirts and chained ourselves in front of the wheels of the car, we would still have looked like a credible hunting party. Because of him. The sick impala we were looking for narrowly escaped with his life this night but that is the nature of the hunt: unpredictable. We returned to the farm some time in the early morning, tired and smelling faintly of gun smoke but still immensely proud that we went on a hunt with him.

While sitting around the campfire the stories of his close encounters with fate in the form of a sharp pair of horns or a lethal claw almost came alive. I remember the story of him hunting a buffalo years ago. It was the fair kind of hunt, a balanced game of who is hunting whom. The man by himself with nothing but a rifle and his senses, the animal with its own weapons and instinct, nothing more than that. How it should be. The hunter, if all goes well, will only need one or two shots; the buffalo only needs one twig breaking underfoot to become the hunter. This time he fired one shot and prepared for the second, killing shot…which never came. A blocked rifle is ever a possibility but can never come at a more unfortunate moment than when one is staring the fury of nature in its eyes. The roles have now changed and he has to think fast to avoid the horns of the hunter – up a tree, the only refuge in this situation, albeit not an ideal long-term one. The animal is right underneath him, it knows he is in the tree and it is not going to leave until one of them lies dead. Hours pass, the buffalo has not given up and neither has he. Desperate but determined he keeps one eye on the rifle he is trying to repair and the other on the eight hundred kilo’s of rage underneath him. The faulty bullet finally lets go. The second shot, at last.

We did realize at the time we had experienced a holiday unlike any other. Only now do we realize how fortunate we were to have met Tinus and his loving family when we did, out there hidden in an oasis deep in the South African low-veld. When I returned to Campfire Safaris in January of this year Tinus had just left on holiday: a pity I thought at the time, but I would be back soon enough for my next bush-craft lesson from the big guy. It was not meant to be however as he passed away not so long ago. Despite the knowledge that he undoubtedly is where he belongs, in a much better place, I can’t help but feel the loss of somebody who was taken before his time. He could still have touched others with his wisdom and motivation to defend the environment. On the other hand I am also convinced that his family and the hundreds of people he has taught will carry on his work; I know I will.

I made a short video of him back in 2005 while he was demonstrating the peculiar mock-charge of a black rhino – a hilarious hide-and-seek routine which ends in the big animal hopping around on all four’s. Both him and his wife were about to leave Campfire for a short time and this was the last lesson he wanted to show us before he left. Tinus had perfected this little skit over the years and the movie shows him hopping around just as the rhino, with the group standing around crying our eyes out laughing at his antics. Then at the end of this routine, just as he is about to get into the car, he turns around to us, waves, and says, “We love you all.”

"I lift up my eyes to the hills - where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth.


He will not let your foot slip - He who watches over you will not slumber; indeed, He who watches over Israel will neither slumber nor sleep.


The Lord watches over you - the Lord is your shade at your right hand; the sun will not harm you by day, nor the moon by night.


The Lord will keep you from all harm - He will watch over your life; the Lord will watch over your coming and going both now and forever more."

(Psalm 121 - A Pilgrim's Prayer)

Colourful Observations: Local Part 1

Bringing up the issue of race or colour in South Africa is still difficult and in some places it is simply not done. It has been over a decade now since the country ended minority rule and finally became a democracy, in the process giving freedom and equal rights to its entire population no matter their race, gender or standing. The Rainbow Nation was born at last, uniting all of its people beneath one flag, and the promise of tomorrow never tasted so sweet.

But…

Does the colour of your skin still make a difference in South Africa today? I will explore this question in the following and upcoming articles, making observations of what I have seen and heard myself during my stay here, beginning with the area where I live – the National Park and our slice of the Northern Cape province I call home.

Let me first tell you a little bit more about this place in order for you to better understand the situation: this area of the Northern Cape is, much like the rest of the province, very sparsely populated. The harsh climate (semi-desert) and the lack of industry or other economic activities are mostly to blame for this – few people would be motivated to move to this area who weren’t born and raised here. There is only one major city in this area of the province, Upington, but even many South Africans have never even heard of it let alone are able to pinpoint it on a map. But for those of us who live near it (120 km away in my case) it serves as a lifeline to a more developed world – mostly because it’s the only place around here you can get some KFC (I’d kill for a Wrap right now). The thousands of square kilometres that make up the Northern Cape know only a few “oases” – the area around Augrabies Falls is certainly one of them, as far as the regional standard goes anyway. The park itself generates a healthy number of tourists every year of course, creating much sought after jobs for the local population, but more importantly farmers were able to grow grapes in the soil along the Orange River. Raisins and wine are the two (and only) exports of this region, but it is certainly better than nothing as both goods generate enough investment and tourism to be profitable. In fact most people’s employment history could be summed up as follows: you worked in the grape industry, worked at the National Park or never worked at all. Still…most folk around here tend to fall in the latter category. Unemployment in South Africa as a whole is a problem, but in the rural areas it is even worse: 50% of the rural population is out of work at any given time, usually this percentage is even higher. Around here much of the work is seasonal (grapes), creating periods of high unemployment in between and forcing many families to live on the income generated during grape-season.

Working in the National Park could be considered something of a luxury as it provides its employees with a decent income, a place to live if they so choose, health-care and the best job security a person will be able get around here. Although compared to Europe or even more developed areas of South Africa an income of R3000 is pretty low – that is the kind of money regular employees make in the park (approximately 320 Euros). That’s monthly wages, just to be perfectly clear. Unfortunately for the locals nearly all of the vacancies at the park concern jobs requiring more formal education and work experience than most people have around here, invariably causing these positions to be filled by people from further away. On the upside however, the National Parks try to initiate projects which especially call upon local contractors and labour, such as construction work, fence building, alien plant removal or erosion control – not the most glamorous work imaginable perhaps but essential for many families to survive out here. Besides these two main employers, people do find other work in the farms and guesthouses or in shops at the nearby towns (some even travel as far as Upington). Many others find their salvation at the bottom of an empty bottle, but I will leave the harsher realities of the area for later.

The population statistics of this area of South Africa are also a bit different than what an ignorant traveller from Europe (read: me) would have expected. The majority of people belong in the “coloured” category – trust me, that is the politically correct term. Foreign visitors who expected to see a lot of Africans (black) interspersed with the occasional whitey will be surprised to find few of both around here. In case you’re having trouble picturing what exactly a coloured person looks like – well just come down to the Cape provinces and see for yourself because I’m not about to describe them to you. If somebody asked me to describe a white person I would say: well, they’re…white aren’t they? The same applies here. Coloured people are…well…coloured! There is some confusion about their origins amongst the many visitors to the area that I feel obliged to set straight: coloured people are not the result of frowned-upon romances between white colonials and black natives. While there are undoubtedly plenty of mixed-race children the coloured population of South Africa is not the result of a massive interracial love-fest. In fact the majority of coloured people are descendants from the original (as in the very first) inhabitants of this part of southern Africa, namely the various Bushman tribes. There is quite a lot of arguing over what to call the people many now know as Bushman (or San), but the truth is that they themselves do not have a name for their “people” and apparently do not really care what the rest of world wants to label them as. Good for them I say. Eventually of course some white “adventurers” came upon this area as well as some African tribes from the East, signalling the end to life as the Bushmen knew it…but that is a whole other can of worms, which I will keep warm for another day.

In the area where I live coloured people, not Africans, are the majority – one of the few places in the country where this is so. This has presented me with many sad, but at the same time comical, examples of how the government has been trying to implement an equal employment policy for the previously disadvantaged majority.

But more on that in Part 2.