I'm baaaaaaaaaaaack

"And do you have a driving license?" the policeman asked my passenger Robyn when I failed to produce mine at a routine roadside checkpoint.  Robyn's was also back at our holiday flat facing the sea.  Facing a stiff 1000 rand fine (or likely lesser bribe) Robyn offered to stay with the policeman while I drove the four blocks back for mine.  We revealed we were going a mere half block up the hill, and, satisfied with the destination, he simply waved us on with a parting, "you should always carry your driving license."  Shaking our heads in disbelief at our good fortune, we simply did, what as travelers we're so accustomed to do, and carried on.

On the other side of another winter away and uncharacteristically looking forward to temporarily resettling in British Columbia's north, these past three months have not clichely "flown by."  There's been sufficient variety in scenery, animals, people, food and culture that's it's a great mystery to me it was ONLY three months.  

From an English wedding in an impossibly gorgeous (and likely haunted) hotel in the countryside to a home-cooked tajine in Morocco's High Atlas Mountains to Zanzibar's perfect beaches to participating in a Malawian dance night to kayaking alongside seals by day and is-this-real? stargazing in Namibia to OMG scuba diving in Sodwana to exploring what's likely Africa's most beautiful city, Cape Town, it has undeniably been an action-packed trip.  

So much so, apparently, that I've neglected posting.  My schedule has been chockers with fun and little sitting-in-an-air-conditioned-internet-cafe downtime to properly process and share interactions, musing, observations and photos. 

In summary, then:

South Africa is a beautiful, puzzling nation where I felt mostly safe.  While the country has made spectacular post-apartheid progress, it is far from finished.  

Namibia, wow.  I hadn't even heard of this safe, English-speaking (mostly), stunning country until I was looking into visiting Africa.  Loaded with watering holes with Africa's enchanting wildlife, outstanding concerts with their own Elemotho, climbing sand dunes for sunrise, a canyon rivaling it's Grand cousin, I struggle to find a day there that wasn't 10/10.  

Eastern Africa: For ease, convenience and safety it's best explored on an organized tour unless you have some handle of the local language(s).  

Sealy Saturday

Oceanside in Swakopmund, Namibia, Robyn and I took to the chilly seas atop a kayak to visit seals and dolphins.  Spectacular visibility awaited us at the end of Pelican Point in a sheltered bay.  A quick lesson from Leonard from Namibia Kayak Tours and we were on the glassy bay as seals young and old played in the water and on the sandbanks.  At Leonard's urging we paddle sprinted to the dorsal fins of dolphins and were rewarded as they popped up to breathe a handful of boat lengths away.  

We're approximately halfway through an overland tour of Namibia with Nomads bound for Cape Town, South Africa.  Our tourmateys have actually been a treat, our one (out of two) guides lacklustre and we've collectively been blown away by the scenery, animals and diversity of this African gem.  

Curious marine friends

Chillin on the beach

My favourite bow bitch

Namibian flora has some spectacular adaptations to its dry climate

Typical tentscapes

TIA

There's no shit shy in Africa.

"How's your bowels?" is a common greeting as meds are swapped on the advice of the coincidentally on-board Aussie nurse and pharmacist.  When not popping Cipro or "stoppers" for the travel days, any lingering reservations of pooping in public washrooms has literally disappeared down the toilet for our Commonwealth-citizened truck bound for Johannesburg.

With public washrooms a generous term, I have yet to encounter Thea's Malian "trous" or Risa's poo-bombed cement pads in Ghana but have been blessed with my fair share of filthy squat toilets where your and, more often, other's waste could not be more confronting.

While beach strolling in Essaouira, Morocco, I happened on a two-child couple engaged in the most compelling birth control: the father suspending a defecating toddler while the mother collected it from the sand in a plastic baggie.

As Dan was throwing his bag into his airport taxi - after his nth visit to the hostel's clean, private toilets - to start on his journey back to Chetwynd, I was dispensing his second course of Cipro.  Fingers crossed he lands an aisle seat for his 23-hour journey...

Morocco meanders

 

England calling

As the flags from the various embassies rimming London's Trafalgar Square clapped alongside a gathered crowd listening to an R&B group belt out Mariah Carey, Michael Jackson and jazzed up Christmas carols, I had a moderate twinge of homesickness and a too-familiar sinking guilt at being away for yet another holiday.  Lured to Trafalgar Square on the promise of lights and a Christmas tree, I was simultaneously disappointed by the lack of lit objects and delighted to stumble upon a live performance that was to last "only as long as the rain holds off" their conductor quipped.

Prior to wandering around London's early evening, I visited a recovering cousin and her husband and later popped into a girlfriend's wedding, where a night of free-flowing white wine and dancing cured my lingering jetlag.  Likely haunted, the reception venue was as enchanting as it was full of friends I hadn't met yet.  

My third time in London, I've been prowling around to former favourites while discovering new gems and checking off what I deem to be very British things - walking in the pouring rain, Eucharist at St. Paul's Cathedral, eating curry and riding the train - whether it's the tube in London or longer hauls, it continues to be my favourite mode of transport.  

I'm meeting a friend I met in Vietnam tonight, followed by an airport sleepover, then on to Morocco tomorrow!  Wish me luck, I'm nervous as hell for the latter!

Essential in any year

I started this in 2010, and it is still rings true as I pack again for another winter away. Passing through Edmonton, Red Deer and Calgary, I am once again blown away by the generosity of my friends. Spare rooms, entire houses! even, opened, vehicles and novels loaned, meals and beer gifted, rides offered, time given. To acquire such a debt is humbling and reminiscent of Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros "home is wherever I'm with you" so a hugely insufficient thank you is overdue.

2010 Bare Essentials (and any year since) 

• Valid passport
• Orange work caulk (pronounced cork) boots
• Word processor
• Credit card of my choosing – and I am spoiled for choice.  I hold all three major cards in my wallet. 

I imagine these items are indicative of the year I want to have.  Passport to travel, work boots to trudge through the boreal with, a word processor to write about it, and a credit card to make up the difference where the struggling B.C. forest industry falls short. 

All of these are some sort of ID.  Government issued, industry standard, future aspirations of amateur writer and a financial institution that happily finances my pursuits for an exorbitant interest rate. 

Collectively, these items do not make me autonomous or even mildly independent.  If anything, they reemphasize my dependence on others.

Passport reminds me I am thankful of the rides to the airport, the bulging address book full of friends, family, acquaintances and strangers who will take me in and shelter, feed or simply entertain me for a few moments and the support of my mother who will promptly answer any phone message I leave her. 

Likewise with my caulk boots.  They remind me of the close-knit forestry community and my ultimate dependence on the Creator to harvest and renew His creation. 

There's a photo somewhere that Robyn took of my daypack while we frantically searched for my passport as my bus to Edmonton idled.  It shows my laptop, a bottle of rum, camera and a handful of novels from Donna.  

Too many cooks

It’s been eight years since I purposely worked in a female dominated domain, and it’s truly a great mystery how I lasted two months (nearly to the day) in the same gender arrangement before giving my notice.

More than fed up with the forest industry, specifically in the role as a contractor, and seeking a, any really, change of employment, I was pleased to land in a lunch bistro committed to providing nutritious, quality lunches for my northern community that doesn’t know quiche from quinoa.     

That delight was short lived as I was reminded of the subtle politics, daily agony, personality wars and unnecessary competiveness that working alongside sisters from another mister holds.  Anti-women I am not.  Non-feminist, no way.  I love my girlfriends, mother, female cousins, aunts, I do! 

I acknowledge it’s entirely possible I have yet to develop the skill set required to navigate the frothy, temperamental waters of all-female coworkers.  Not surprisingly, the forest industry fostered my compassing, cultivated veg ID and deepened my soil typing rather than nurturing those softer people skills. 

While I claim a few new kitchen tips and tricks, my ultimate goal of taking a breather, a sabbatical from primary industry was accomplished.  Fewer hours and demands (physically and mentally), negligible stress and personal time factored in my gainful underemployment. 

Sure, I may use my new-found personal time tooling around on the internet, cleaning the bathroom or visiting girlfriends when really I’d like to be reading novels (non-fiction or otherwise) and walking puppies.  But that’s not the point.  Not since my retail days of high school have I had flexibility and freedom in my schedule, am not falling-over tired from faking another (!) good day in the rain or as truly committed to never asking, “to stay or to go?” in the context of food again. 

Yeah, we roast our pieces of pig, Hutterite turkeys, roast beasts in store, bake our own bread, make outstanding soup and spreads and daily attempt to bake up a storm for the Chetwynd masses.  Yes, I am deeply proud of serving and creating quality food. 

But I am ready and it is time (for me, not the sodding sandwich) to go. 

To Africa.