Big Safari Number Three, Part III of III: The Thanksgiving and Zimbabwe trip that weren't.

After our animal tracking in northern Botswana last week, Big Red carried us across the Botswana-Zambia border, a seven hundred-yard stretch of the Chobe River. Jumping through the legal hoops to get the car across took a five hour chunk out of our Monday, and the introduction to "real" Africa on the Zambian side of the border was jarring and, for me, energizing. We sped to Livingstone, Zambia: the adventure capital of Africa and the jumping-off point to Victoria Falls and the Zambezi River. We spent two days meeting other travellers at Jollyboys backpackers and white-water rafting on the Zambezi.

We had planned to drive back to Botswana on Wednesday, a full-day trek that would get everybody back for work on Thursday morning. But wait - I didn't have a job to get back to, right? And I have always did want to go to Zimbabwe, which is just next door... I waved goodbye to clan Wednesday morning, and quickly buried my nose in the guidebooks.

Then, around eight hours later, the Zambezi struck back. By the numbers:

3 - Jollyboys toilets with which I am intimately acquainted
45 - Visits to said toilets between Wednesday night and Saturday morning
3 - Hours spent awake on Thanksgiving
1 - Meals eaten on Thanksgiving Day (oatmeal, thanks to two motherly Swedish girls)
4 - Meals eaten between Wednesday and Saturday
3 - Failed attempts at a ride to Zimbabwe, GI protesting all the way

I have long wanted to travel to Zimbabwe, ever since my brother's aborted summer plans in 2000. The Zimbabweans I have met are wonderful, and if there is a "least of these" in Africa, Zimbabweans are it. All that - on top of the failed attempt to go to Lwala, Kenya this week - kept me waiting at Jollyboys from Wednesday to Saturday on the hopes that I would finally be able to make it.

When my ride to Bulawayo fell through again on Saturday, I finally gave up the ghost. I had fasted since Friday afternoon, packed up and checked out - but his parents' passports had been mis-stamped, and they wouldn't be leaving until Monday. There was a group of travellers headed across the Botswana border just as Tony was breaking the news, so I hopped in with them, my traveller’s tail between my legs. I was bummed - both about not getting to Zim and about having "given up" on going. I needed something to lift my spirits, and fast.

That "something," it turns out, was a covered African Express pick-up travelling between Kasane and Francistown, the second leg of my journey back home to Gabs. I waited at the bus stop in Kasane, watching the other hitchhikers to pick up on the routine, and then hustled with the crows toward the pick-up as it slowed down. "Only two," said the driver. I was unlucky number three. I made motions to walk away when another hitchhiker looked at me, then at the truck that was accelerating away, and said, "Do it."

That was all the encouragement I needed. I ran after the truck, opened the doors and pulled myself in. The two Batswana in the back started laughing, then exploded as the truck slammed to a halt and I went flying headfirst into the front of the compartment. The driver came around to the back, scowling. But when he saw the white boy rubbing his head, he started laughing too - and I now had myself a dark, smelly, four-hour lift to Francistown (along the way, we would pick up one more passenger: a guinea fowl who slammed its own head against the grill of the truck, coming out less alive than I). After a sleepless overnight train from Francistown on which I was the only white person out of about five hundred, I finally made it home at 6:00 Sunday morning. I gave thanks, went to the bathroom, popped a Malarone and an anti-diarrhoeal, and slept like a baby. Who knew Botswana would start feeling like home?

Big Safari Number Three, Part II of III: People, Places, Stories, Faces

With regards to storytelling, traveling stacks the deck. And the kind of "Choose Your Own Adventure" travel that I enjoy (and stresses me out) often provides for particularly fun tales to tell.

But what really gets me going, and the reason that I put up with the two-day old pairs of socks and leaky tents and occasional rip-offs, are the people. There is no greater assortment of vagabonds than that which you find at a hostel or campsite, and the locals that lend themselves to meeting strangers are often the most curious if not always the most savory sort. When my roommates headed back to Gaborone after five days of traveling in Botswana and Zambia, I stayed behind and got some extra face time before attempting to get to Zimbabwe. Some of the characters I met include:

Tony: After graduating college Tony told his British parents that he was going to Zambia for twelve months with his buddies. That was around 1996. Tony is now one of the most well-known guides and photographers in Southern Africa. When his father took a mokoro (boat) trip in the Okavango Delta in Botswana, the villager manning the boat said "Tony? Tony Camera? He is not like other guides. We like Tony Camera."

Robert: A Shona Zimbabwean orphaned at five, Robert put himself through school with government help. He didn't go to college, however, because he had no way to pay for it. It doesn't matter, he says, because college graduates and high school dropouts alike find no jobs in Zimbabwe. I met Robert on the ride to Gaborone, to which he was traveling from Masvingo (about 500 miles) to sell handicrafts, a train ride on which Robert became my default companion and bodyguard.

Chris: After beginning his sales pitch with a traditional Zambian "Hello, my friend" volley, Chris followed me all the way to the internet cafe despite my assurances that I didn't need any more bracelets. He waited for me there, at which point I promised I would buy him a beer if he would show me around the more local parts of Livinstone, Zambia. With stunning turnaround time, he said, "Oh, I shouldn't drink on an empty stomach. Maybe we can just get take-out." We compromised on the beer, for which we paid half the normal price at the local backalley bar. No bracelet.

Ruben: Though he looked about twelve, Ruben had just turned seventeen, quitting school (according to the sales pitch) in order to support his family selling trinkets to tourists. Like Chris, Ruben followed the potential sale all the way down the street despite a limp and a serious stutter. What finally got me? The kid could name the last sixteen US presidents, in backwards chronological order (in addition to Lincoln and Washington). Bracelet: $1.25.

Matthijs and Nic: No, that's not spelled wrong: Matt is Dutch, and he met his wife Nic when they were both traveling. They've just quit their jobs in Australia and are moving to Holland, but decided to take three months to wander Africa before they started job hunting. The first time I've looked at a young married couple and though, "Hey, that might not be so bad." Also, Matthijs is a professional Project Manager, and gave me some great Manna Project advice over the burgers which would later bed-rid the both of us. His white-water antics the day before left our entire boat in stitches (except for Nic, who looked constantly nervous about her husband's thrillseeking).

This list does not include: the Swedish gals who gave me porridge when I was sick, or the Botswana Defence Force who fought proudly and admiringly alongside the US Marines in Somalia, or the cat who attempted to sell me weed on the train, or the American girls who talked loud enough for everyone in the hostel to hear them at all times, or my hitch hiking buddies, or the veteran traveler who has spent the last twenty months in the developing world - at the age of (best guess) thirty-five. This, for me, is "travel."

Big Safari Number Three, Part I of III: Close encounters of the lion, elephant and hippo kinds

Back in Botswana, after failing for three straight days to get to Zimbabwe and hitchhike back to Gaborone. More on that later.

Big Safari Number Three, Part One:

I wanted to see lions on this trip. And by "wanted" I fully mean in the seven-year old, fascinated with big animals, going-to-pout-if-I-don't-get-to-see-lions sort of way. Early Sunday morning, we woke up for game drive number one - to encounter along the road to the park three young male lions lounging by the highway, nonplussed by the six safari vehicles and international assortment of camera flashes now interrupting their morning naps. We would end up seeing a handful more that day - including at night, when we passed a female hunting pride on our drive through the park to our campsite, as three of us were hanging out of the windows of the truck (affectionately named "Big Red") to see the African stars.

However, lion attacks on humans are rare. The most dangerous scenario in Africa is an upset elephant, which we encountered on Monday morning. Twice. After waking up to a picturesque seen on the banks of the Chobe River dividing Botswana from Namibia, with impala grazing and watering less than a hundred yards away, we took a seriously wrong turn out of the campsite and ran across a herd of elephants on Firebreak 15, a sandy patch of road created to prevent bush fires from spreading through the park. The herd watched us lazily, then ambled on in front of our truck. But not before one of the younger males, as happy to pick a fight as any adolescent human, raised up on two legs, trumpeted, and began to head toward our vehicle. Says the Bradt guide to Botswana: "If you get into a hair-raising situation with elephants, then you've probably not kept your distance. They key was prevention, and you failed." Oops.

Lions and elephants, however, were not enough for Michelle, who had yet to see Zebras in Africa. Unfortunately, the thousands of zebras in Chobe had already begun to move southeast of us to the Savuti strip, too far for us to go before the Zambia border closed that evening. So we asked a guide at Chobe National Park, who gave us a fifteen-turn set of directions which led us down another firebreak on the other side of the main road. We drove for forty-five minutes down another questionable and seldom-navigated sandy path, spotting only an abandoned tractor (probably an old male, as construction equipment tend to travel in groups called "crews"). Still, it was hard to be too disappointed that we were cruising through the African bush on a beautiful day, listening to Jack Johnson and Keeley Valentino. Driving, I stuck my head out the window and said, "Hey ellllephants, where aaaare you? Come eat me! I taste goooood!"

There is little about this particular situation that I can fully explain. First, why would I offer myself as a culinary interruption to the pachyderms' rather bland diet? Second, why would I make such an offer in Spanish, which I did? And third, why in the world did I choose to yell such a thing exactly four second before driving within ten feet of a herd of mother elephants quite capable of defending their (hilariously awkward) young babies)?

Matching the roar of the less-than-pleased beasts, our truck let out five screams at once: one mechanical (the truck, as I floored it), two masculine (myself and Carl) and two feminine (Michelle and, worryingly, Jason). We pulled to a halt about seventy meters away, allowing ourselves to breathe and Big Red to recover. The rest of the story is rather anticlimactic - Michelle got to see her zebras, who had poked their heads into the firebreak to see what all the fuss was over, and by the time we snuck past the elephants they had returned to their typical herbivorous fare, apparently having forgotten my meaty offer.

The last story I will make brief as I am already breaking all laws of blog length. During our boat "cruise" Sunday evening (actually, more like a barge. Bob, you'd be proud), I noticed some hippo snorts around the corner from where our river guide had decided to end the tour. With a bit of cajoling, I was able to convince her to steer around, where we found a forty-strong breeding herd of mother and baby hippos. Beautiful. Until we got stuck in the mud. With a little help from the included drinks on board, I began translating our situation for the Spanish family on our barge while Jason vainly shoved the barge's one oar in the mud, the guide radioed for help and the emergency beeping of the engine began to agitate our fat friends. Neither the hippos nor the guide nor the Spanish mother were amused by my offer to jump out and "push."

The sum moral of these stories: in Africa, a small shot of bad judgment goes a long, long way. Use sparingly.

I lied

Hello from Zambia - where I still am, in fact. After seeing wild animals (lots of them, and lots of hair-raising animal encounters that would make my mom nervous), then heading to do some white-water rafting in Victoria Falls, I was supposed to head back down to Gaborone with the roommates. But... I didn't. Sorry. I waved goodbye this morning as our 4-Runner drove off, then picked up a Lonely Planet Africa to see where I might wander off to for the next week or so. As my roommate Jason says, "Man, my life stinks."

Lovin' it,

Mark

Happy traaaails to me

Off to Kasane, Victoria Falls and Chobe National Park until Thursday. Thanks for visiting; come back for pictures at the end of the week.

Haguna Matata (yes, that's Setswana. How cool is that?),
mark clayton

Next Stop, Ecuador (Help!)

In the fall of 2007, I will be headed to Quito, Ecuador, with some of the best people you might ever meet to start a site for Manna Project International. Our goal is to work with a community in Quito to provide an authentic service experience to college students and graduates.

Where I need some help: I and a handful of potential co-founders are going to scout out neighborhoods in Quito in early January. If you know people in Quito - or know people who know people - pass us their names, what they are doing or have done in Ecuador, and contact information. Thanks!

Learning to be Lost: The Broadmoor Story

Occasionally, though less often with the passing of years, I still hear people ask, What happened to Mark?

Generally, this refers not to my rather nomadic nature, but to the transformation I went through just after high school. After having been heavily involved and invested in a Southern Baptist church in my hometown called Broadmoor, my worldview turned upside down, and I haven't been inside the place since without squirming a little bit.

I have finally taken the time to write that story, a story that is close enough for me to write it with emotion but distant enough now that I can do so without any bitterness. I wrote it for myself - much the same way one writes about a past girlfriend or a memorable trip whose details are beginning to get fuzzy around the edges. It is a story worth telling, though; if it is one you'd like to hear, let me know.

Mopping and social justice

I moved in to the American house (called the White House by certain neighbors, I hear) in mid-September. I know that since then, the floor of our laundry room has been left to its own devices. Given the quarter-inch of nasty present upon my arrival, it had been doing so for a long time prior.

I took a broom and then a mop to the laundry room this week. Despite my best efforts, I ended up mostly swishing around mud. The place was a little cleaner, but still not someplace I would often walk barefoot.

Thanks to the time I spent sweeping the slabs of construction sites in Shreveport for Terry Elston, sweeping and mopping have become meditative times for me. In the laundry room my meditations turned to the work I have been doing in Botswana and, in the quintessential question of volunteers and activists, whether what I have been doing will "make a difference."

After batting about the typical responses, I looked down at the mop in my hand, now too mud-soaked to be effective, and paused. The mopping I was doing was in response to a problem: nastiness. Even if I had been able to bleach the place into submission, it would have to be mopped again next month. The maintenance of a house demanded constant attention.

The language of social justice, volunteerism and activism would benefit from reframing of its goals and accomplishments in the language of housekeeping. A house, like a society, is a construct: it is not a given, will not be around forever, and requires constant upkeep and improvement to prevent its collapse. And a house, like politics, demands more than just a reactionary response: if we wait for the next storm to turn the leak in the roof into a collapsed chunk of ceiling, or we tarry until the Social Security account reserves are exhausted, we lose.

What such a shift in vision allows us, I believe, is to abandon the ideology of naive optimism without falling into the kind of pessimism that I have heard from many of my friends, which assumes that any sort of community service is akin to wiping dirt from the dash of a car already headed off a cliff.

Rather than a cliff-bound car, what we inherit from our mothers and fathers is a home - one which we are bound to live in, one created with care but maintained with varying degrees of concern or lack thereof. Some places, like my laundry room, need three or four goings-over before you can even step foot in them safely. Each of us has a choice. We can let the paint peel a little more, the dishes stack up a little higher, the bathroom get one more layer of grunge. Or, if we are brave, we can get out the mop.