April 18, 2016

Etosha National Park was founded in 1907, and covers about 8,600 square miles, or a little larger than the state of New Jersey. It is known for the Etosha Pan, or dry salt lake, which is 75 miles long. It’s also known as one of the best places in Southern Africa to see wildlife. Of the “Big Five” game animals, Etosha has four of them, missing only the buffalo.

I spent the last three days on an organized safari tour of Etosha National Park. This was necessary due to the restrictions of most game parks in Africa prohibiting motorcycles (which is probably a good thing, as it only takes one near-sighted lion to mistake me and my XT for an impala or a kudu, both of which probably have better acceleration than the XT and still lose out to the lion).

 

The 4×4 truck looks a bit like a cross between a box van and a bus, and carries 15 passengers and two guides. It was full for my trip; I was the only American, along with 9 Germans, two Dutch, a Thai woman and a couple from Singapore. I was picked up at my hostel in Windhoek Saturday morning, and we drove nearly nine hours, arriving at the southern entrance to Etosha just before dark, where we immediately set up camp and walked to a nearby watering hole to watch elephants at sunset.

 

 

The next morning we packed up and spent the full day driving across Etosha, stopping at various watering holes and along the road to observe the wildlife. I’ll let the photos tell the story of the day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was a long three days of driving (or riding along in a truck actually), but worth it for the scenery. Although I found myself thinking that as anti-social as I was before I left on this trip, I’ve become even more so now that I’ve been traveling alone for so long. It was difficult to travel with a group, and I’m ready to get back on the bike and ride and camp alone again.

One nice side effect of the past several days has been the total lack of access to the outside world. It was nice to have no wifi, no cell service, no connection whatsoever, and not be concerned with responding to the expectations of others via email, etc. For the first time in eight months of what I expected to be a remote, somewhat isolated adventure, I finally found that isolation. While the world has become a much smaller place with wifi and cellular, it comes at the price of peace and serenity. It took Africa to show me that it can still exist.

And that concludes my anti-social rant for today.

 

April 20, 2016

Windhoek, unfortunately, turned out to be what I had heard. The capitol of Namibia, it’s a big city, with a crime problem. I’m sure like most big cities, there are pockets of good and pockets of bad. I don’t think they put many hostels in the “good” sections. 

Outside the gate to my hostel was a sign that said “Do not leave your vehicle unattended on the street. It WILL be broken into.” Not “it MIGHT”. I spent two nights at the hostel; one before the safari tour to Etosha, and one upon returning. The first night someone left their rental car on the street briefly, and lost all of their stuff. The second night a woman had all of her luggage stolen, including her passport (I never heard the story of how, so I don’t know if it was in a car). In both cases, they were U.S. citizens. Not sure what that says, but the sign is fairly prominent. I left my bike inside the gate, with a cover on it, for the three days I was in Etosha, and was still worried about it, although all turned out fine. 

It’s a shame, because aside from Windhoek, my experiences in Namibia have been overwhelmingly positive, and the people have been great. 

Leaving Windhoek, I rode back up the same highway that I had just come down in the safari bus the day before, eventually turning away from Etosha on a road out of Otavi. From there to Grootfontein I passed through a wide valley, which looked a lot like the Rio Grande Valley in Texas — large, flat, grassy plains and pastures with tall palm trees and cattle — except for the low mountains on the horizon. 

This would be my longest distance to cover in one day in Africa — around 515 kilometers or 318 miles — and fortunately it was all paved.

At a fuel stop along the way, I received the usual questions: “Where are you coming from?” (most people here initially assume I am South African, I guess because I am a white guy on a motorcycle), “How long have you been on the road?”, and “Where are you going?”. When I mentioned that I was from Texas, the response was “I see you have your cowboy shoes, but where is your hat?” The stereotypes of Texans are as strong or stronger than our stereotypes of Africa.

I spent the night at Roy’s Rest Camp just north of Grootfontein. At the campsite, I met Jeremy and his mum B, who are traveling together in a rented 4×4 camper truck, and having a great time. I’m still not sure I understood it exactly, but it sounded like Bea was from England but had been living in New Zealand for a long time, and Jeremy is from New Zealand, but has been living in London, working in IT. When he was recently “rendered redundant” as they call it (laid off), he decided to do this Africa trip, and chose his 76-year old mother as his navigator/traveling partner. I had dinner with them at the campground, and coffee the next morning, and they’re great people. B is a hoot. I’d choose her for a traveling partner too. 

I also met two gentlemen from Sedgefield, South Africa, who along with some friends started a craft brewery as a hobby after retirement and now can’t make enough beer to satisfy everyone’s demand for it. They recommended a camp site for the following night near Divundu, so I made a note of it and decided to try to track it down. 

Leaving Roy’s the next morning, the scenery began to look more like what I had always imagined Africa to be. There were small huts, about 8 feet square, made from tree branches for walls and with thatched roofs. These homes were usually in a compound of six to ten of them, surrounded by a fence also made of tree branches. (I later learned not to call them “huts”. They are “local houses”. And the gathering of houses surrounded by a fence are the houses of extended family.) Occasionally a house made of corrugated sheet metal would appear in among the wooden houses (where does all of this corrugated sheet metal come from?), and the inevitable plastic lawn chair. I have to think I’d be the richest man in the world if I could just get a few cents royalty from every plastic lawn chair sold. 

 

Women dressed in bright dresses walked down dirt paths alongside the road, carrying heavy sacks of grain, plastic jugs of water, or woven bowls on their heads, perfectly balanced, some with a baby in a sling on their back. Children waved eagerly as I rode by. Young men gave me the thumbs-up, while smiling broadly. By the end of the day, my left arm was tired from so much waving back. 

Eighty kilometers from Divundu I passed my first motorcycle traveler going the opposite direction on a yellow BMW GS. I slowed, but he didn’t, so I continued on. I didn’t see his license plate, so I’m not sure where he was from, but the bike was loaded similar to mine. This is definitely not the Gringo Trail in South America; it’s been just over 3,500 miles in Africa, and that’s the first traveling motorcyclist I’ve seen on the road. 

Several miles down a gravel road, I found the Mobola lodge and campsite I had been told about. A nice place, right on the river, with a bar over the water to watch the hippos and crocodiles. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The next morning I packed up slowly, as I was only going about 25 miles to another riverside camp. This one I had read about earlier and had booked a reservation in advance, otherwise I would have gladly stayed at Mobola another night. 

Not only was the deep sugar sand road into the camp a bit of work, but then the road turned to water…

 

The camp itself is on the edge of the Cubango River; very green and lush. Which is probably why the crocodiles and hippos like it so much also. My campsite is right on the river. I’ve been assured that the animals won’t disturb me (or does that mean they attack quickly?). 

 

 

 

 

 

April 24, 2016

I left Ngepi Camp mid-morning for a 340 kilometer ride across the Caprivi Strip, that narrow portion of Namibia that stretches between Angola, Zambia, and Botswana.

The Caprivi Stip highway is a very straight, very flat road through what used to be known as the Caprivi Game Park, but is now Bwabwata National Park.

 

 

A little more than half way across I came upon an 18-wheeler lying on its’ side on the opposite side of the road, but facing the same direction I was headed. It clearly hadn’t been there long, as there was a crowd of locals gathering around it. As I slowly rode past, I looked in my mirror and saw a pair of legs sticking through where the windshield used to be. I turned around and went back, thinking at least I had a first aid kit on the bike and possibly could help. I parked the bike and walked up to the driver, who was sitting in the cab with his legs sticking out. As he saw me approach, he climbed out. I asked if he was okay and he said he was fine, although he was clearly embarrassed at having turned the truck over on a flat, straight stretch of road. He couldn’t have been more than 20 or 21 years old, and didn’t seem to have a scratch on him. Very lucky. There didn’t appear to be anything I could do to help, so I got back on the bike and continued on. I was thankful that I didn’t meet him coming the other direction a few minutes earlier.

I spent Saturday night in my tent at Caprivi Houseboat Lodge, which I thought was an odd name for a campground, until I saw that they actually have several houseboats that they rent out as rooms, in addition to a few land-based chalets, and the campsites.

Sunday morning I crossed the border into Zambia at Katima Mulilo and took the very potholed road along the north side of the Zambezi River east towards Kazungula. The border crossing went smoothly, other than all of the “fees” necessary on the Zambia side, including:

• US$80 for a multiple-entry visa, since I’ll enter Zambia again in a couple of days (Must be paid in US dollars, and they must be post-2006 dollars, and they must not have any tears, ink stains, or other damage. It took going through almost every twenty dollar bill I had before I presented four that were acceptable to the immigration officer. If I had run out of acceptable 20s, I’m not sure what the next step would have been.)
• US$20 for a Road Safety Fee (Tax)
• 50 Kwacha (US$5.34) Carbon Fee (emissions tax)
• 305 Kwacha (US$32.58) Mandatory Third Party Liability Insurance (they required it and wouldn’t let me out of the border area until I bought it)
• 30 Kwacha (US$3.20) Local District Levy (another tax)

So basically $140US to cross into Zambia, a country with poorly maintained roads and a struggling population. Where is all that money going? I paid only a small road tax fee to enter Namibia, and the roads that were paved were nicely maintained.

More than once, I was told by immigration and customs that they don’t see many motorbikes through here. I seemed to be a rarity. I glanced at the logbook that I had to sign at several windows, and didn’t see another motorcycle listed, nor another US citizen.

Not long after crossing into Zambia and passing through Sesheke (just past the border), the road began to look like many of the roads in rural Mexico and Central America: potholes stretched across the road and prevented a clear route through at more than about 50 to 60 km/h. There were very few cars, but I did encounter a few big trucks that were struggling to get through the potholes.

It was Sunday morning, and there were a lot of people on the road. Not cars. People. In a 140 kilometer stretch, I passed hundreds of people walking alongside the road, dressed in their Sunday church clothes. Women had nice dresses. Men wore suits with ties. Many carried plastic lawn chairs. They clearly walked miles to get to church and then home again.

Their homes were the same “local house” 8×8 foot or maybe 10 to 12 foot diameter circular hut in a dirt clearing surrounded by a fence made of tree limbs. In fact, nearly all of the homes are this style, though I did begin to see some that were made of mud or adobe walls rather than just the tree limbs I had seen earlier in Namibia. I couldn’t help but wonder where they kept their clothes in these small homes, as everything they wore looked so clean and well cared for. Even though the houses are very basic and surrounded by nothing but dirt, the women sweep the dirt floors and the dirt around the house nearly every day. They do their best to keep everything clean and orderly.

Eventually I arrived at Kazungula, and turned onto the road toward the ferry crossing into Botswana. I began to pass more than a hundred 18-wheelers parked alongside the road. This again reminded me of Central America. And sure enough, when I arrived at the border post, I was immediately approached by “helpers”, another sight I had not seen since Central America. This phenomenon seems to occur in the poorer countries, and in this case, it was only at this Zambian border post. I didn’t encounter helpers at the Katima crossing earlier in the morning, nor did I encounter helpers when I got off the ferry in Botswana.

The reason there are so many trucks waiting to cross is because the ferry can only hold one truck at a time, and this is the official border crossing between Zambia and Botswana. My carnet has very specific instructions stating that this is the only border crossing I can use to leave Botswana.

 

Four countries all come together near this point: Zambia, Namibia, Botswana, and Zimbabwe, kind of like the “Four Corners” in the US where Utah, Colorado, New Mexico, and Arizona all meet. But not as nicely square as that.

The entry into Botswana was very straightforward (and without all of the fees of Zambia) and I was through immigration and customs in about ten minutes and on my way to my camp for the next couple of nights.

As I pulled into the camp, the guard at the gate told me to be aware of the monkeys and baboons. And she wasn’t kidding. The monkeys were everywhere, as were warthogs. Before I could get the tent set up, I had a dozen monkeys in my campsite watching me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

April 25, 2016

 

Tip #1: Close to the river is nice, but not TOO close.

  

Tip #2: Zip up the tent, regardless of how short you intend to be out of it.

 

  

Tip #3: If taking a nap in the chair, remain calm when you wake up to a noise. They will usually walk around you.

   

Tip #4: Do not get between the hippo and the water.

 

   

Tip #5: When cooking dinner, expect company.

  

Tip #6: Choose your shade wisely. Everybody wants to be in the shade in the heat of the day.

   

Tip #7: Always look outside the tent before climbing out.

April 26, 2016

Today marks nine months since I left San Marcos, Texas on this trip. It seems like yesterday. The places I’ve seen, the people I’ve met, the memories I’ve made….it all flows together and feels like it could go on forever. 

I spent two days and two nights in Kasane, Botswana at the campgrounds of the Chobe Safari Lodge, which allowed me time to take a three hour game drive in one of their vehicles through the northeastern end of Chobe National Park. I saw a lot of buffalo and impala, a couple of lions, some giraffe, and an elephant. But still no leopard. Of the “Big Five”, that’s the one I’ve missed. 

I did see a lot of guinea fowl though, and I saw them in Etosha as well. But here they call them Chobe Chickens.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As I was packing up to leave Kasane, the baboons made an appearance at the camp. The wildlife just in the campground is pretty amazing, if you can be satisfied with warthogs, mongoose, monkeys and baboons walking around you at all hours.

I also met a family from Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe) who were traveling together in a 4×4 on a two month journey. Baz saw my bike and the Texas registration, and stopped to talk. While his sister, brother, and sister-in-law still live in Africa, he’s lived in Canada for 25 years, working for Toyota, and has an XT250. Like most others, he never thought of riding it any long distance. Now he’s having other thoughts. 

I headed back across the border to Zambia on the Kazungula ferry, and east to Livingstone. As I left Kazungula, the road condition improved and I had nice pavement with painted stripes all the way to Livingstone, where I intend to camp for two nights.

On the way into Livingstone I see a t-shirt with a great saying on it:

In America, they call it SURVIVOR.

In Africa, we call it CAMPING.

 

 

April 27, 2016

I’m staying on the edge of the Zambezi River, just about one kilometer up from Victoria Falls, known as Vic Falls to the locals. The river here is wide, with islands in the middle. On the other side is Zimbabwe. There is an island in the middle of the river, right at the falls. Apparently, this is where David Livingstone stood and first viewed the falls that he named for Queen Victoria of England. 

On the other side of my tent, about 200 meters through the trees, is a runway. I’ve been listening to helicopters and micro-lights take off and land all afternoon, so I decide I’ll go check it out. 

Rather than spend the money, time, and hassle to take the motorcycle across the border to Zimbabwe, where there is a better view of Victoria Falls, I decide to do a 15 minute helicopter flight over the falls. It’s possible to go through immigration and get a pass to walk out onto the bridge that connects Zambia and Zimbabwe in order to view the falls from this no-man’s land, but I’ve decided the best overall view is from the air. It’s a big bite out of my budget, but I’ve been saving quite a bit by camping every night, so I reward myself with the helicopter ride. 

It is definitely worth it. I don’t think I would have understood the geography of the falls without seeing it from the air. Victoria Falls drops into a canyon that, unlike most waterfalls, runs perpendicular to the river above the falls, and zig-zags back and forth several times before continuing on into Zimbabwe. Each of these canyons was once where the falls were, but over time the falls have edged back to where they are today. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The bridge connecting Zambia to Zimbabwe has a bungee platform, a swing, and a zipline. Tempting, but I’ve spent enough here already. Tomorrow I’ll pack up and start heading north towards Lusaka. 

I shot video with the GoPro from the helicopter also, but I’ll have to find some better wifi before I can upload it. I’ll add another post once I get it uploaded.

And one more photo tribute to Lloyd…I don’t recall if he ever made it here, but this is definitely another one of his kind of places.

April 28, 2016

As I ride along north out of Livingstone, Zambia I’m listening to Red Dirt music from home — Turnpike Troubadours, Josh Abbott, Rob Baird, Whiskey Myers. It feels a bit odd listening to Texas music while riding through these small African towns where I am the only white face and the only motorcycle, but it also has some comfort to it. I’m thinking of the answer to a question I’ve been asked several times over the past few months: What do I miss about home? 

The short answer is “not much”. I’ve adapted to this lifestyle, and I don’t feel like I’m lacking or needing anything in particular. But to be fair, if I think about what makes me happy and comfortable, there are a few things I miss. 

1. My buddy Dexter. My cat is incredibly cool, and a great friend. He acts more like a dog than a cat sometimes, which is okay. He loves to hang out in the shop or garage and be around bikes. And he loves people. 
2. A couch. Ok, my couch. A couch that I can really just plop down on, put my feet up and be comfortable. Yeah, I’ve sat on couches since I left home. But they’re not the same as the couch you call your own…the one you come home to every night. I had this brown leather chair that was really comfortable. I sold almost everything I owned before leaving home, but I kept that chair. I’m looking forward to sitting in it again some day. 
3. My guitar. Odd, since I haven’t played in a couple of years. I didn’t realize I missed this until about the twelfth time through the Turnpike Troubadours album, when I realized that I had most of the chords to the songs figured out and just wanted to sit and strum along. 

So if I could sit on my couch with my guitar and Dex, I’d be good. But honestly, right now, it would only take a week or two before I’d be missing the road again. I may have to re-think the trip….a sidecar would allow Dexter and the guitar to come along. The couch, well, that’s gonna have to stay home.