Posted on August 25, 2007 by Emma
That is the title of a book by a Welshman called Jon Manchip White about his travels in South Western Africa, focusing on Namibia. I struggle with the title because I can't imagine an angry God making the the Namibia that I saw, the Namibia that I can't shake from my memory. It is a land that justifiably evokes bountiful adjectives and superlatives, but from what I saw, God was in an exuberant, dramatic and creative mood when it came to making Namibia.
Our photos and our words cannot do the place justice. I still find myself scrolling keenly through my archive of photos to make sure it was me: that I was there under the purple black sky overflowing with stars, to check that the deep red glow of the sun setting over the barren Atlantic was something I saw, to prove that the two recently-sated lions strolling past our truck, so close that I could almost touch them was not something I dreamed.
We packed an enormous amount into our two weeks in Namibia, driving up from Fish River Canyon (Grand Canyon...eat your heart out!) to Windhoek in one, long day before the 12 day Dunes and Delta tour with Thimbi Thimbi. I don't think I fully appreciated the import of the word VAST until I saw Namibia. I thought I did as we traveled up the lush green Olifants River Valley in South Africa, flanked by colossal mountains the sun seeming too far away to ever set. Then we drove all over Namibia and now I understand how very big the open spaces are, how many bumpy dusty miles of ever changing landscape roll by through a colour chart of khaki, yellow, ochre, red and brown between oases of townships. And the sky....there is just so much of it, uninterrupted by tall buildings or light pollution, bright blue or twinkling black arcs take up two thirds of the space on my retinas.
Our itinerary took us from Windhoek to the Dune Sea at Sossusvlei and Sesreim for a couple of nights of bush camping in the desert. Then back to Windhoek for a brief respite from the heat, before continuing our infinity loop up to Etosha National Park, Bushmanland, the Okavango Delta and the Caprivi strip, finishing up in Livingstone: dazed, exhilarated and enriched. We became adept at spotting all the wild animals - baboons, oryx, ostrich, springbok, jackals and zebra - crossing our paths. The desert was surprisingly cold at night - we had four season sleeping bags and multiple layers of fine merino wool keeping us above freezing both we were nights there. It is a wonder anything can survive in this harsh, utterly breathtaking and surreal land, but they do. I picked up a nasty cough and cold in Sesreim, which ultimately spread to our whole group and, as I was later told, to almost all the tourist groups doing the same circuit. Of all the things to get in the hottest, driest and oldest desert in the world...a common garden cold, no doubt a stowaway from Europe.
I can't adequately convey my experience in Namibia, it still needs to filter through my senses that are buzzing from over stimulation, but I have favorite moments. Dawn at Dune 45 (because of its distance, in kilometers, from Sesreim) - not just for the physical conquest of making it up a three or four hundred foot shifting sand dune but for the quiet awe we stood in as the sun crested over the mountains and bathed the previously matte terracotta dunes in twinkling golden red light, technicolour where there had been black and white. The utterly surreal vision that is Deadvlei - a haunting, stark white clay pan - the ghost of a once might river - dotted with pitch black petrified trees, stuck denuded in comical poses against a backdrop of bright orange dune. Windy Walvis Bay with its regular conical mountains of refined salt and plethora of flamingos, pausing briefly to breed and feed. Pushing my comfort zone to go quad biking and sand boarding down vertiginous golden dunes and being rewarded with adrenaline and the realization that I am more competent than I give myself credit for.
Our first night at Etosha National Park - after a long drive up from Windhoek, through Grootfontein, we arrive at dusk and are rewarded with the truly breathtaking spectacle of wild animals resting and re hydrating at the water hole, adjacent to our camp site, which is flooded with infra red light so we can watch from the cheap seats. First the family of Elephants, lined up like big grey Russian dolls along the bank, noisily slurping and play fighting with dust. Then there was the cautious White Rhino mother and her calf, dismissively staying clear of the solitary Black Rhino, strutting and grunting at the bizarre flashes of light caused by overzealous and ignorant tourist cameras.
And out of Acacia trees materialize five lanky Giraffes, awkwardly angling their limbs to drink at the waterhole. Jackals zig zag everywhere, eerily howling at the red crescent moon that set right behind the waterhole. As these animals tried various jetties into the watering hole, they passed no more than 10 feet from us - smelling but not seeing the alien figures, all of us holding our breath or slack jawed in amazement.
Taking a walk in the bush with a real live Bushman, of Kalahari and The Gods Must Be Crazy fame - watching him pad silently through utter wilderness and learning about which animals will feed me and which plants will cure me. Another highlight is the peaceful watery relief of the languid Okavango Delta, being punted through the lily pad studded swamp in mokoro (dugout canoes) along the maze of channels made by hippos and being lulled to sleep in our island bush camp by the constant drone of frogs and cicadas.
It feels odd sleeping in a double bed inside four, air conditioned walls. No more tent pitching and camp fire ritual and mercifully no more pre-dawn starts. I like the noise and the colour and the bustle of Livingstone, the "real" Africa feel after the surreal of Namibia but I know it is a place and an experience that will stay with me for a long long time to come. I will miss the kind, inquisitive and easy going nature of the Namibians I met and very much hope we will see them again when we return.
Our photos and our words cannot do the place justice. I still find myself scrolling keenly through my archive of photos to make sure it was me: that I was there under the purple black sky overflowing with stars, to check that the deep red glow of the sun setting over the barren Atlantic was something I saw, to prove that the two recently-sated lions strolling past our truck, so close that I could almost touch them was not something I dreamed.
We packed an enormous amount into our two weeks in Namibia, driving up from Fish River Canyon (Grand Canyon...eat your heart out!) to Windhoek in one, long day before the 12 day Dunes and Delta tour with Thimbi Thimbi. I don't think I fully appreciated the import of the word VAST until I saw Namibia. I thought I did as we traveled up the lush green Olifants River Valley in South Africa, flanked by colossal mountains the sun seeming too far away to ever set. Then we drove all over Namibia and now I understand how very big the open spaces are, how many bumpy dusty miles of ever changing landscape roll by through a colour chart of khaki, yellow, ochre, red and brown between oases of townships. And the sky....there is just so much of it, uninterrupted by tall buildings or light pollution, bright blue or twinkling black arcs take up two thirds of the space on my retinas.
Our itinerary took us from Windhoek to the Dune Sea at Sossusvlei and Sesreim for a couple of nights of bush camping in the desert. Then back to Windhoek for a brief respite from the heat, before continuing our infinity loop up to Etosha National Park, Bushmanland, the Okavango Delta and the Caprivi strip, finishing up in Livingstone: dazed, exhilarated and enriched. We became adept at spotting all the wild animals - baboons, oryx, ostrich, springbok, jackals and zebra - crossing our paths. The desert was surprisingly cold at night - we had four season sleeping bags and multiple layers of fine merino wool keeping us above freezing both we were nights there. It is a wonder anything can survive in this harsh, utterly breathtaking and surreal land, but they do. I picked up a nasty cough and cold in Sesreim, which ultimately spread to our whole group and, as I was later told, to almost all the tourist groups doing the same circuit. Of all the things to get in the hottest, driest and oldest desert in the world...a common garden cold, no doubt a stowaway from Europe.
I can't adequately convey my experience in Namibia, it still needs to filter through my senses that are buzzing from over stimulation, but I have favorite moments. Dawn at Dune 45 (because of its distance, in kilometers, from Sesreim) - not just for the physical conquest of making it up a three or four hundred foot shifting sand dune but for the quiet awe we stood in as the sun crested over the mountains and bathed the previously matte terracotta dunes in twinkling golden red light, technicolour where there had been black and white. The utterly surreal vision that is Deadvlei - a haunting, stark white clay pan - the ghost of a once might river - dotted with pitch black petrified trees, stuck denuded in comical poses against a backdrop of bright orange dune. Windy Walvis Bay with its regular conical mountains of refined salt and plethora of flamingos, pausing briefly to breed and feed. Pushing my comfort zone to go quad biking and sand boarding down vertiginous golden dunes and being rewarded with adrenaline and the realization that I am more competent than I give myself credit for.
Our first night at Etosha National Park - after a long drive up from Windhoek, through Grootfontein, we arrive at dusk and are rewarded with the truly breathtaking spectacle of wild animals resting and re hydrating at the water hole, adjacent to our camp site, which is flooded with infra red light so we can watch from the cheap seats. First the family of Elephants, lined up like big grey Russian dolls along the bank, noisily slurping and play fighting with dust. Then there was the cautious White Rhino mother and her calf, dismissively staying clear of the solitary Black Rhino, strutting and grunting at the bizarre flashes of light caused by overzealous and ignorant tourist cameras.
And out of Acacia trees materialize five lanky Giraffes, awkwardly angling their limbs to drink at the waterhole. Jackals zig zag everywhere, eerily howling at the red crescent moon that set right behind the waterhole. As these animals tried various jetties into the watering hole, they passed no more than 10 feet from us - smelling but not seeing the alien figures, all of us holding our breath or slack jawed in amazement.
Taking a walk in the bush with a real live Bushman, of Kalahari and The Gods Must Be Crazy fame - watching him pad silently through utter wilderness and learning about which animals will feed me and which plants will cure me. Another highlight is the peaceful watery relief of the languid Okavango Delta, being punted through the lily pad studded swamp in mokoro (dugout canoes) along the maze of channels made by hippos and being lulled to sleep in our island bush camp by the constant drone of frogs and cicadas.
It feels odd sleeping in a double bed inside four, air conditioned walls. No more tent pitching and camp fire ritual and mercifully no more pre-dawn starts. I like the noise and the colour and the bustle of Livingstone, the "real" Africa feel after the surreal of Namibia but I know it is a place and an experience that will stay with me for a long long time to come. I will miss the kind, inquisitive and easy going nature of the Namibians I met and very much hope we will see them again when we return.
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Posted on August 16, 2007 by Emma
It's raining in Cape Town and I am told this is rare, but the practised way the locals lean against the wind suggests otherwise. We arrive in the dark and take a taxi to Long Street, past miles of shanty towns stuffed in awkward groups around the complex motorway ring road. If we return, we will remember to have small denomination Rand with us, to tip the man who arranges taxis. As it was, he got 50 Rand, about a third of the actual fare into town.
We are staying in a boutique hotel called Daddy Long Legs (link) where each room has been done up by a local artist. So, as their brochure says, you literally sleep in a work of art. We are in Beingmak1one - a stark white room, with a 3D graffitti like structure contstructed above our bed, looking like a the fallen ghost of a once mighty Transformer. It's very cool. The whole place is very cool, muted lighting, a well stocked bar, helpful and well informed hip young things manning the front desk.
Long Street is lined with bars, local and exotic restaurants, music stores and street-wear clothes shops. This is the place to be to have a good time. Despite being right in the middle of the party street, our room was blissfully quiet, overlooking a small courtyard and an office block, all shut up at night.
Read More »
We are staying in a boutique hotel called Daddy Long Legs (link) where each room has been done up by a local artist. So, as their brochure says, you literally sleep in a work of art. We are in Beingmak1one - a stark white room, with a 3D graffitti like structure contstructed above our bed, looking like a the fallen ghost of a once mighty Transformer. It's very cool. The whole place is very cool, muted lighting, a well stocked bar, helpful and well informed hip young things manning the front desk.
Long Street is lined with bars, local and exotic restaurants, music stores and street-wear clothes shops. This is the place to be to have a good time. Despite being right in the middle of the party street, our room was blissfully quiet, overlooking a small courtyard and an office block, all shut up at night.
Read More »
Posted on August 07, 2007 by Emma
We arrived in Sydney on Saturday afternoon, blinking and disoriented, we plodded our way up from the underground corridors of Central Station. A brief immersion into familiar city life and an occasion to catch up with good friends, before the next leg of our trip. I've been to Sydney before and had planned all sorts of things for Cads who had not been before, but we did not get to most of them. From Big Hostel on Elizabeth Street, we wandered lazily towards the waterfront, popping into book shops, craning our necks to check out the new buildings around us, exploring Paddy's market comparing look and feel with other places we've been.
We found that the park near the Rocks is called Cadman's Park, which was as exciting for us as it is trivial for the locals. Having had drinks in a bar over looking the Sydney Opera House at dusk, we found ourselves queuing for dinner at Zia Pina, a renowned pizza and pasta place, complete with red and white checkered tablecloths and dated autographs of formerly famous people on framed menus. I've never queued for a restaurant before, but what the hell - we were tourists. Twenty minutes later, we are seated and soon after fed. A Four Seasons pizza for me and a Vegetarian with extra chilli for Cads, accompanied by a half bottle of the house red. The pizza was decent enough but it was not a patch on what we got so wonderfully used to from Al Volo on Mt Eden Road . If nothing else, Al Volo pizza alone is reason to come back to Auckland.
We woke late, grabbed brunch and meandered pas Hyde Park on the way to the ferry bound for Manly and a date with Sam and John, old University friends now living in Palm Beach. We always meet in front of the "shell" shaped sculpture by the ferry terminal building, which in fact looks like an enormous faded bronze coloured turd, fully funded by local tax payer dollars. A constant source of puerile laughter for me. Manly was busier than usual - Sunday day trippers and families making the most of the school holiday filled the boardwalk. We took a sunny stroll along the water front, quickly catching up on histories and plans, then to a cool, expertly selected cafe for home made burgers, pot pie, roasted vege salad and more chatter.
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We found that the park near the Rocks is called Cadman's Park, which was as exciting for us as it is trivial for the locals. Having had drinks in a bar over looking the Sydney Opera House at dusk, we found ourselves queuing for dinner at Zia Pina, a renowned pizza and pasta place, complete with red and white checkered tablecloths and dated autographs of formerly famous people on framed menus. I've never queued for a restaurant before, but what the hell - we were tourists. Twenty minutes later, we are seated and soon after fed. A Four Seasons pizza for me and a Vegetarian with extra chilli for Cads, accompanied by a half bottle of the house red. The pizza was decent enough but it was not a patch on what we got so wonderfully used to from Al Volo on Mt Eden Road . If nothing else, Al Volo pizza alone is reason to come back to Auckland.
We woke late, grabbed brunch and meandered pas Hyde Park on the way to the ferry bound for Manly and a date with Sam and John, old University friends now living in Palm Beach. We always meet in front of the "shell" shaped sculpture by the ferry terminal building, which in fact looks like an enormous faded bronze coloured turd, fully funded by local tax payer dollars. A constant source of puerile laughter for me. Manly was busier than usual - Sunday day trippers and families making the most of the school holiday filled the boardwalk. We took a sunny stroll along the water front, quickly catching up on histories and plans, then to a cool, expertly selected cafe for home made burgers, pot pie, roasted vege salad and more chatter.
Read More »
Posted on August 07, 2007 by Emma
For the first 24 hours off the ship, I found myself swaying involuntarily, plagued by sudden head rushes whenever I lent over to reach for something. It's land sickness: my body having become used to the rolling sea was now unaccustomed to the stability of land. I've had this uneasy feeling before, but not for a long time - not since I last came home after a season on the tuna long lining boats, where I worked as a deckhand. Or maybe I just missed being out in the deep blue. Either way, I was happy out on the Great Barrier Reef. I can see how so many, well intentioned travelers have become locals. Prospective university students and suit wearing professionals now crew of mega yachts, bar staff or travel agents. If I was going to drop off the grid, the Whitsundays would be an easy place to do it in.
The chronology of our three days and three nights on the Ananconda III is that we set sail at 7pm on Tuesday night and anchored off Whitehaven Beach that night. The next morning was spent pottering around Whitehaven Beach, above or below water then to Hayman Island for lunch, snorkeling and sunbathing. Early the next morning, we sailed the 16 nautical miles to Bait Reef and spent a long day discovering why its called the "Great" Barrier Reef, before coming back to Blue Pearl Bay to anchor for the night. More diving and snorkeling around Blue Pearl Bay in the morning and back to Abel Point Marina late Friday afternoon.
My memory of the experience does not fall into neatly segmented pieces of time. When I think of our trip around the Whitsundays and under the Great Barrier Reef, I get flash card images where there is a lot of blue, every imaginable shade of blue, there is laughing with passengers and crew and hysterical drinking games, there is an entire day and night of food poisoning, fitful sweaty sleep and hot sweet tea, there are Humpback whales breaching the waves along side us, there is sand between my toes that looks and feels exactly like high grade white flour, there's buddy checks of diving equipment, delicious chatter-filled and carbohydrate-packed lunches, the animalistic grooming ritual of applying sunscreen and the tight raw patches of skin, punishment for not reapplying often enough.
And then there is the kaleidescope of moving colour underwater, there are tiny darting things in swaying strands of anemones, the rasping sound of huge technicolour fish grazing amongst the coral, there is surprise and awe at seeing sharks, turtles and massive jelly fish, my safety stops where I am being pulled along by a deep current older and stronger than anything I've felt before, holding my breath to keep the bubbles from my regulator from drowning out the whale song, the unbelievable peace and quiet of being deep below the crashing surface of the ocean, the thrill of a night dive, big cuttlefish eyes glinting in the fuzzy torch light and an endless ocean of dark around our little artificial halos, the spectacular night sky, a shared can of Woodstock and Coke and an adrenalin fueled sense of achievement, our reward for braving the inky darkness.
That was my experience and I would do it again in a heart beat.
The chronology of our three days and three nights on the Ananconda III is that we set sail at 7pm on Tuesday night and anchored off Whitehaven Beach that night. The next morning was spent pottering around Whitehaven Beach, above or below water then to Hayman Island for lunch, snorkeling and sunbathing. Early the next morning, we sailed the 16 nautical miles to Bait Reef and spent a long day discovering why its called the "Great" Barrier Reef, before coming back to Blue Pearl Bay to anchor for the night. More diving and snorkeling around Blue Pearl Bay in the morning and back to Abel Point Marina late Friday afternoon.
My memory of the experience does not fall into neatly segmented pieces of time. When I think of our trip around the Whitsundays and under the Great Barrier Reef, I get flash card images where there is a lot of blue, every imaginable shade of blue, there is laughing with passengers and crew and hysterical drinking games, there is an entire day and night of food poisoning, fitful sweaty sleep and hot sweet tea, there are Humpback whales breaching the waves along side us, there is sand between my toes that looks and feels exactly like high grade white flour, there's buddy checks of diving equipment, delicious chatter-filled and carbohydrate-packed lunches, the animalistic grooming ritual of applying sunscreen and the tight raw patches of skin, punishment for not reapplying often enough.
And then there is the kaleidescope of moving colour underwater, there are tiny darting things in swaying strands of anemones, the rasping sound of huge technicolour fish grazing amongst the coral, there is surprise and awe at seeing sharks, turtles and massive jelly fish, my safety stops where I am being pulled along by a deep current older and stronger than anything I've felt before, holding my breath to keep the bubbles from my regulator from drowning out the whale song, the unbelievable peace and quiet of being deep below the crashing surface of the ocean, the thrill of a night dive, big cuttlefish eyes glinting in the fuzzy torch light and an endless ocean of dark around our little artificial halos, the spectacular night sky, a shared can of Woodstock and Coke and an adrenalin fueled sense of achievement, our reward for braving the inky darkness.
That was my experience and I would do it again in a heart beat.
Posted on July 30, 2007 by Emma
We are staying at the Organic B&B, perched just the right distant above the main drag of Airlie Beach itself. From the deck, where I am having some fantastic organic coffee and freshly squeezed mandarin juice, I can see the harbour, still and bright and dotted with sailing boats, the crews getting reading to welcome another load of camrera and sun screen clutching tourists. The islands beyond the harbour are dark, fuzzy purple blobs floating in a pink sea. There is some construction noise drifing through the thick leaved trees, that hum with birds, hinting at the massive development being put in at the other end of town but otherwise it's blissfully tropical and peaceful. Read More »
Posted on July 30, 2007 by Emma
Much harder than I expected or remember. I've spent the past few days since my last post saying good bye to friends and family and I did not like it one bit. Leaving Mum was the worst. It took me back to being 4 or 5 years old; an instant flash back to bright sunlight and dry grass, the driver packing a compact suitcase into the standard issue U.N. Peugeot 404 as my Mum kneels to hug me, her perfume a wave of nostalgia for the weeks to come. My memory has let me down: I had forgOtten the tearing away of one life from another that makes new adventures possible. Remembering it was a pretty horrid experience. Sadly, it's one that we are likely to repeat, but that is for another blog.
Dinner at Molten was divine (as usual) and felt - for most of the night - like the usual gang getting together to catch up holidays, future plans, recent acquisitions and disposals. Thanks, to those of you who were there, for the cards, the sentiment and pressies, but mostly for just being there. It was a lovely send off and I will miss you very much. I'm taking some consolation from the fact that we will hopefully repeat that dinner on my side of the Pacific (or Atlantic...?) sometime soon.
A whirlwind of packers, painters, carpetters, cleaners, letting agents, banks, post offices, internet cafes and car rental agencies later, we are moved out and on the way to San Francisco, via Australia, Southern Africa and the UK. For one last fling with all things wonderful in NZ, we rented a holiday home in Raglan to spend some quality time with Mum and Arnold. It was a weekend punctuated with cups of tea, long walks on the beach that hovers between sky and sea, soaking in the hot spa bath, pottering around curiosity shops and staggering home, bellies taut with wholesome food and luscious pinot noir. Perfect.
There is the most surreal view out of my airline window. It's early in the morning, the witching hour, and we are flying into Brisbane. There is a full moon floating under a snow white duckdown duvet of cloud, fringed with fuschia pink glow from the sun rise creeping its way into the sky, the background light faded shades of turquoise and indigo.
Dinner at Molten was divine (as usual) and felt - for most of the night - like the usual gang getting together to catch up holidays, future plans, recent acquisitions and disposals. Thanks, to those of you who were there, for the cards, the sentiment and pressies, but mostly for just being there. It was a lovely send off and I will miss you very much. I'm taking some consolation from the fact that we will hopefully repeat that dinner on my side of the Pacific (or Atlantic...?) sometime soon.
A whirlwind of packers, painters, carpetters, cleaners, letting agents, banks, post offices, internet cafes and car rental agencies later, we are moved out and on the way to San Francisco, via Australia, Southern Africa and the UK. For one last fling with all things wonderful in NZ, we rented a holiday home in Raglan to spend some quality time with Mum and Arnold. It was a weekend punctuated with cups of tea, long walks on the beach that hovers between sky and sea, soaking in the hot spa bath, pottering around curiosity shops and staggering home, bellies taut with wholesome food and luscious pinot noir. Perfect.
There is the most surreal view out of my airline window. It's early in the morning, the witching hour, and we are flying into Brisbane. There is a full moon floating under a snow white duckdown duvet of cloud, fringed with fuschia pink glow from the sun rise creeping its way into the sky, the background light faded shades of turquoise and indigo.
Posted on July 22, 2007 by Emma
After many months of planning, stress, excitement and anticipation, the adventure has started. Sad to leave, but reassured by the boomerang pull that NZ has on both of us.
First stop: Airlie Beach and the Anaconda for several days of white sand beach dreams and salty diving stories. Then we explore the delights of Southern Africa before a restorative week in London with friends and family before our arrival in the US of A.
Watch this space....
First stop: Airlie Beach and the Anaconda for several days of white sand beach dreams and salty diving stories. Then we explore the delights of Southern Africa before a restorative week in London with friends and family before our arrival in the US of A.
Watch this space....