The moments before dawn surpass the sunrise as the best
time to be in the desert. Last night’s
battles for survival have ended and today’s have not yet begun. Last night’s chill hangs heavy in the air as
the sun prepares to share its morning warmth.
The ethereal quiet that overwhelms desert visitors is the dominant
physical force. All of this begins to
change as the sun starts its march across the horizon. The warming rays cause birds to begin
singing. Reptiles seek out a spot in the
warming sun and the other half of life in the desert springs into action.
A morning of deathly silence and immense beauty began to
unfold in front of me as I stood in a patch of desert near Calvinia watching
the day begin. No birds new to my list
passed in front of me however that did not diminish the immenseness of the
desert’s attractiveness near Calvinia as it had been earlier as I traversed the
R 355 road through the Karoo desert.
Untouched, untrammeled, and undisturbed African wilderness extended from
one horizon to the other. For as far as
my eyes could see there was nothing except Africa as it always has been. It was another reason that I was beginning to
feel like I did not ever want to depart Africa.
Althea, the breakfast hostess at the restaurant I visited
last night was working when I returned from the desert. She mentioned a couple from San Francisco
that used to travel annually to Calvinia to view the riot of flowering plants
in spring. She wondered out loud why so
few Americans travel to South Africa.
“My guess is that it’s out of fear of the unknown,” I
said. “Only eleven percent of Americans
have a passport and that means that only about thirty million travel
internationally. Most of them, it seems,
go to Mexico, the Caribbean or Europe.
Africa has negative connotations to too many people and too few
Americans want to find out if it’s true.”
Americans, for all of our wealth and presumed power, are
extremely parochial and nationalistic. Fueled in part by the hyper-partisan right
wing media industry, many people believe that America is the best, greatest,
and only country worth knowing and woe be to anyone who disagrees with that
myopic point of view. Consider the
anti-French hysteria that gripped the nation not long after America’s invasion
and occupation of Iraq.
Vive le France!
Possessing more testosterone than intelligence, former
President (and I use that word loosely) George W. Bush made the nascent
political decision to attack Iraq despite any and all evidence showing that
Iraq had nothing whatsoever to do with the September 11 attacks on the United
States. The country had been fed heaping
helpings of lies and obfuscation leading up to that invasion. Pictures were painted of mushroom clouds
draped over the American landscape if Saddam Hussein’s weapons of mass
destruction were not eliminated.
Otherwise honest and reliable Secretary of State Colin Powell sat in
front of the United Nations and said with a straight face that the United
States had “irrefutable evidence” that Hussein possessed all of those weapons
and probably many more. The only
solution was to remove them forcefully.
President Bush cobbled together his poorly-named “Coalition of the
Willing” and began preparations to invade a nation that never once threatened
the United States.
France did not see things through the same cocky set of eyes that George Bush possessed. France told the President to take a deep breath, think about what he was going to do, review the data again and look for a diplomatic solution to the issue. When Bush moved forward in spite of the evidence and then asked France to join his loose-knit coalition, France loudly and proudly said “no.” In fact, France said “hell no.” What followed was a display of child-like parochialism likely never again to be seen on the world stage. Americans began dumping their Evian bottled water because it was produced in France.
After the French debacle Evian is the only bottled water I drink
The facades of French restaurants in Washington, D.C., New York City and elsewhere were vandalized, defaced and in some cases fire bombed. Making matters worse the once-respected United States Congress agreed to change the name of “French Fries” on the Capitol restaurant menu to “Freedom Fries” as a form of protest against France. The right wing media glommed on to this nonsense and fanned the flames of French hatred. All across America people broke out in unscripted and spontaneous chants of “USA, USA, USA” while the rest of the world clutched its collective sides and doubled over in uncontrolled laughter.
The French debacle was only one of many situations where
American actions proved that the Bush Administration deserved no place on the
international stage. In the end, France
had every right to thumb its nose at the United States for wanting to be a
bully in Iraq. Despite the collective
right wing outrage to the contrary which country – the United States or France
– was correct? History has shown
unambiguously that it was not the United States.
“It’s a shame,” I told her, “that more Americans don’t
come to Calvinia or even to South Africa.
However we have allowed ourselves to be scared into a corner and I don’t
see us climbing out of that corner any time soon.”
About forty miles north of Calvinia the composition of
the desert soils made a demonstrable and measurable change. Vegetation became widely scattered and the
landscape took on the appearance of a moonscape. I diverted east at Brandlvei and searched the
surrounding desert for birds. The
species composition here was markedly different than just a few miles further
south near Calvinia. The changes came
about because the landscape was transitioning from the Karoo Desert to the
Kalahari.
The Kalahari Desert (it means “thirsty land” in
Afrikaans) is a large semi-arid savanna extending over more than
350,000 square miles covering much of Botswana and parts of Namibia and
South Africa. As semi-desert, with huge
tracts of grazing after good rains, the Kalahari supports more animals and
plants than a true desert such as the Namib to the west. There are small amounts of rainfall and the
summer temperature is very high. It usually receives up to eight inches of rain
per year. The surrounding Kalahari
Basin covers more than 970,000 square miles extending farther into
Botswana, Namibia and South Africa, and encroaching into parts of Angola,
Zambia and Zimbabwe. Ancient dry
riverbeds traverse the central northern reaches of the Kalahari and provide
standing pools of water during the rainy season.
Previously havens for wild animals from elephants to giraffes, and for predators such as lions and cheetah, the riverbeds are now mostly grazing spots, although leopards and cheetahs can still be found. Among deserts of the southern hemisphere the Kalahari most closely resembles some Australian deserts in its latitude and its mode of formation. The Kalahari Desert was once a much wetter place. Ancient Lake Makgadikgadi covered the Makgadikgadi Pan until its final drainage some 10,000 years ago. It may have once covered as much as 106,000 square miles. Despite its aridity, the Kalahari supports a variety of fauna and flora. The native flora includes acacia trees and many other herbs and grasses. Some of the areas within the Kalahari are seasonal wetlands. This area supports numerous salt-tolerant species. In the rainy season tens of thousands of migrant birds visit the desert wetlands.
Previously havens for wild animals from elephants to giraffes, and for predators such as lions and cheetah, the riverbeds are now mostly grazing spots, although leopards and cheetahs can still be found. Among deserts of the southern hemisphere the Kalahari most closely resembles some Australian deserts in its latitude and its mode of formation. The Kalahari Desert was once a much wetter place. Ancient Lake Makgadikgadi covered the Makgadikgadi Pan until its final drainage some 10,000 years ago. It may have once covered as much as 106,000 square miles. Despite its aridity, the Kalahari supports a variety of fauna and flora. The native flora includes acacia trees and many other herbs and grasses. Some of the areas within the Kalahari are seasonal wetlands. This area supports numerous salt-tolerant species. In the rainy season tens of thousands of migrant birds visit the desert wetlands.
Brandlvei is a tiny village plopped down in the middle of
nowhere at the edge of the Kalahari. There are several stores along the main
street, one restaurant, one place that passes itself off as a hotel (of sorts)
and a gasoline station. Edward, an
attorney from Cape Town, was filling his Land Rover with gasoline when I drove
into the station to purchase some water.
He heard my voice when I spoke to the station attendant and asked if I
was Canadian or American. Confirming the
latter he asked why I was in Brandlvei and I explained about bird
watching. His next question, by now
quite predictable, was about my impressions of South Africa. My answer was, by now, equally as
predictable. Edward told me that the
“contrast between whites and blacks is just as stark out here in the desert as
it is anywhere else in the country.” My response to Edward was that here it
appeared that the chasm wasn’t between the haves and the have not’s” but
between the haves and the never will have’s.
“The blacks wanted to rule the country and they have been
for twenty years. All they have done in
that time is to make matters worse. At
its current rate of decay South Africa is going to be like all the other
black-dominated countries in Africa in a few years,” Edward said. He then added that “It’s not surprising that
so much animosity exists, however nothing is holding the blacks back from
improving their situation except the blacks themselves.” As with so many similar conversations I had
in South Africa, Edward’s opinions were stated openly and loudly and directly
in front of a group of black people standing near him. There was no effort to hide anything.
Miles of seemingly endless miles of desert passed by me
as I traveled north. Intermittent stops
along the highway produced new birds for my list as gemsbok and springbok began
to appear on the landscape. Just before
Kakamas, the road crested a small hill and then descended into the valley of
the Orange River, the longest river in South Africa. It rises in the Drakensberg mountains in
Lesotho and then flows westward through South Africa to the Atlantic Ocean. It
forms part of the international borders between South Africa and
Namibia and between South Africa and Lesotho, as well as several
provincial borders within South Africa. Although the river does not pass
through any major cities, it plays an important role in the South African
economy by providing water for irrigation.
In the last 500 miles of its course, the Orange
receives many intermittent streams and several large wadis lead into
it. The Orange empties into the Atlantic
at Alexander Bay which is about halfway between Cape Town and Walvis Bay. About twenty miles from its mouth the river
is completely obstructed by rapids and sand bars. The river has a total length of about 1,400
miles.
Irrigation in the vast area downstream of the Vanderkloof
Dam was made possible by the construction of two dams. Old, established
irrigation schemes have also benefitted because regulation of the flow is now
possible. In recent years the wine producing areas along the Orange River have
also grown in importance. Irrigation in the Eastern Cape has also received a
tremendous boost, not only from the additional water that is being made
available but also owing to improvement in water quality. Without this
improvement the citrus growers would have continued to experience productivity
losses
In 1867, the first diamond discovered in South Africa,
the Eureka Diamond, was found near Hopetown on the Orange River. Two years later, a much larger diamond known
as the Star of South Africa, was found in the same area causing an almost
instantaneous diamond rush. This was soon eclipsed by the diamond rush to mine
diamonds at Kimberley in 1871 although alluvial diamonds continued to be found
in the Orange. Today, several commercial diamond mines operate on the last
stretch of the river, as well as the beaches around its mouth.
Upington is the largest South African settlement in the
Kalahari. Nestled in the valley of the
Orange River its wide quiet streets and thick riverside vegetation provide a
peaceful respite from the scorching desert that surrounds the city. Its municipal airport with a couple of
flights daily to Cape Town and to Johannesburg serves as the focal point of
much of what makes Upington the regional business center.
The Lonely Planet travel guide to South Africa said,
without equivocation, that a guesthouse on River Street was simply the best
place to stay in Upington. Having
carried Lonely Planet with me to every country I have ever spent a night in, I
have yet to find a single thing wrong with their interpretations, the schedules
provided or the recommendations they make.
It quickly became a no-brainer that I wanted to stay at this
guesthouse.
Upington is the jumping off point for treks north to the
Kgalagadi Transfrontier Park. An
amalgamation of the Kalahari Gemsbok National Park in South Africa and the
Gemsbok National Park in Botswana, the Kgalagadi Transfrontier Park comprises
an area of nearly eight million acres is one of very few conservation areas of
this magnitude left in the world.
Red sand dunes, sparse vegetation and the dry riverbeds
of the Nossob and Auob show off antelope and predator species to spectacular
advantage. Kgalagadi is also a haven for
birders, especially those interested in birds of prey.
I traveled the road north toward the park for about 100
miles but turned around just short of the Transfrontier Park. Gemsbok dotted
the landscape as I traveled north. Most
were in groups of two to eight and they seemed to be evenly distributed across
the landscape. They are light brownish-grey to tan with lighter patches toward
the bottom rear of the rump. Their tails are long and black in color. A
blackish stripe extends from the chin down the lower edge of the neck, through
the juncture of the shoulder and leg along the lower flank of each side to the
blackish section of the rear leg. They have muscular necks and shoulders and
their legs have white 'socks' with a black patch on the front of both the front
legs and both genders have long, straight horns.
Gemsbok were widely hunted for their spectacular horns
that average nearly three feet long.
From a distance the only outward difference between males and females is
their horns, and many mistake females for males. In males, these horns are
perfectly straight, extending from the base of the skull to a slight outward
and rearward angle. Females have longer, thinner horns with a slight outward
and rearward curve in addition to their angle.
Females use their horns to defend themselves and their offspring from
predators, while males primarily use their horns to defend their territories
from other males. Gemsbok are one of the few antelope species where female
trophies are sometimes more desirable than male ones. Few large mammals are
more emblematic of the Kalahari than is the gemsbok.
My quest along this road was pygmy falcon, a diminutive
bird of prey that is slightly smaller but more agile than an American
robin. Pygmy falcon builds its nest in the
dome-looking communal nest structures occupied by colonies of nesting social
weavers. This example of mutualism is
difficult to grasp because the value the weavers receive from nesting near the
falcons is not the least bit apparent.
Despite their being an abundance of social weaver colonial nests,
sometimes attached to every wooden pole for a mile or more of power line, I had
yet to see one. My patience was running low when, 100 miles north of Upington,
I found a pair of falcons displaying to each other over a social weaver
nest. Satisfied with my views of the
birds I turned around and began my return to Upington. As I passed through the Kalahari Desert that
I had just traveled without seeing a single pygmy falcon in 100 miles, on my
return there were five pairs conspicuously flying around near several other
social weaver colonial nests. The last
pair, the one nearest to Upington, was four miles north of the city.
Since arriving in South Africa I had kept notes on the
frequency and abundance of obese people I encountered. I was especially interested in determining
how many obese black people there were.
My interest stemmed from the plague of obesity that has overwhelmed the
United States, especially among black people.
On arrival in Upington I saw my fifth obese South African and the first
one that was black. Why this population,
black or white, is not overwhelmed with obesity is a mystery. The United States holds the dubious
distinction of having the highest obesity rate in the world. Here a full 30.6 percent of the population is
obese or morbidly obese. By comparison 3.3 percent of South Africans can be
considered obese.
Once in France, after completing a gargantuan
seven-course French meal that dripped with cholesterol I asked the waiter why I
had not seen any obese French people.
Given the richness of French food and the love affair the French
maintain with their food it was easy to imagine the entire country carrying as
much or more extra weight than Americans.
“We walk everywhere go,” the waiter said, “and we drink plenty of red
wine. I am convinced that is why we French are slender.”
The same might be true for South Africans especially
those living away from cities where walking or bicycling are more frequent
forms of transport. Another thing that
may contribute to the lack of obesity among South Africans is that unlike the
United States, in South Africa there is not a fast food place like McDonald’s
or Burger King on every other street corner.
Yes, they are there. The golden
arches have probably been erected in every country that has a pulse and,
unfortunately, that includes South Africa, however they are not everywhere in
South Africa. There were more KFC
stores than any other American-style fast food restaurant. At least chicken has some potential for being
a healthy food.
The N10 highway from Upington to the Namibia border
traverses about seventy five miles of pure Kalahari Desert. There is one small intersection with a dirt
road about forty miles from Upington.
Otherwise it is completely wild and untamed and untrammeled desert. Flocks of springbok bounded away from the
highway as I sped west. Herds of gemsbok
showed off their terrific horns at three different places along the highway.
Swallow-tailed bee-eaters hawked insects in one tree-lined valley, and Kalahari
scrub-robins occupied every other reach of power line. Large predators were
conspicuously absent from the conglomeration of wildlife which made me wonder
what forces are in play that keep the population of ungulate grazers from
overpopulating and ruining the desert vegetation.
My trip from Upington to the Namibia border was completed
slightly more than an hour. South Africa
required me to first complete a police interrogation before completing the
departure information before customs did a thorough search of my car and its
contents. Immigration and the police
both scanned my passport and each told me they were verifying my information
with INTERPOL. Apparently the government
of Iceland never put me on their wanted list when I skipped out on a parking
ticket in Reykjavik sixteen years earlier because everything was approved. While immigration was still in the INTERPOL
database I asked one of the agents to check to see if they had any information
on the war crimes committed by George Bush or Dick Cheney. The immigration
agent gave me a huge toothy smile and said, “I love it - another American who
hates George Bush as much as I do.” She
then sent me on to Namibia.
Probably ten miles of desert separate the South African border
post (actually on the border) and the Namibian post in a nearby small
town. On the Namibian side everything
lacked the feeling of modernity that travelers enjoy in South Africa. Here in Namibia I felt like I did when
crossing into Lesotho, Mozambique and Swaziland. Everything was older. Everything was dirtier
and as my friend John Sidle would say, everything was more African.
Nobody at the Namibian border post was quite prepared for
my request to stay in their country for one day. “I’m just bird watching,” I started, “and
nobody I know has ever been to Namibia.”
Each person at each stop of the Namibian immigration
process looked at me like I was crazy when I explained the purpose of my
trip. The two inspectors who examined my
car were at first baffled and then intrigued that I carried nothing with me in
the trunk of my car other than a spare tire. “But where is your luggage,” the
customs officer asked.
I explained that my luggage was at my guesthouse in
Upington and I would be returning there in the evening. I then opened the contents of my miniature
day pack. It included a book on the
birds of Southern Africa, a bottle of water, a highway map of Namibia, a granola
bar, my passport, and a small roll of toilet paper.
“But you do not have enough for a long stay in Namibia,”
the second customs officer told me when he finished rifling through my day
pack. Explaining once again that my purpose was to be in Namibia for only one
day (as sunlight was quickly slipping away) I was told that I needed to talk
with a supervisor.
Daniel, a massive powerful man maybe thirty years old was
built like a left tackle. He occupied
most of the space behind his desk as I entered his cubicle that passed off as a
supervisor’s office.
“My associate tells me that you want to visit Namibia but
for only one day. Is that correct,”
Daniel barked.
Explaining to Daniel that he was correct he wanted to
know how far I was going to travel and why did I want to go there. Telling him I wanted to travel about 100
miles further west to Karasburg and that my purpose was to look for birds and
to learn a little about Namibia he revealed the real purpose for the amount of
attention I was receiving. Apparently this border crossing is used extensively
and heavily by drug traffickers. Because I was traveling alone and without any
luggage other than my binoculars and my day pack, I fit a profile that Namibia
customs had developed.
Frustrated, I said to Daniel, “you have looked everywhere
in my car and found nothing. You have
looked in my day pack and found nothing.
You have patted me down and found nothing. (I was wearing a t shirt, running shorts and
Jesus sandals so there was little to pat down).
About the only place you haven’t looked in is my asshole and I promise
you there is nothing there. So, sir,
what is the hold up? I would like to
spend some time here but if this inquisition is going to continue then I’ll
just return to South Africa. They seem
to like me there.”
“Alright, sir,” Daniel said while still barking at
me. “You make a good point. Now give me your passport and I will stamp
you in and you are free to go. However
you must check in with me on your return this afternoon. I want to make sure you were actually doing
what you said you were going to be doing.”
Once when crossing the United States border with Mexico,
my friend Jon Andrew and I fit a similar profile and were detained and
interrogated by US Customs agents. Because we had minimal luggage and had been
in Mexico only a few days we fit their profile and the suspicion began. We were finally let go when I showed my US
government identification badge to a fellow Federal employee. We were released with an apology. That courtesy wasn’t extended in
Namibia. Before leaving the border post
Daniel made sure that I paid the $220 Namibian dollar road tax so I could
traverse the 100 miles of toad to Karasburg and return.
The dry lands of Namibia were inhabited since early times
by Bushmen, Damara, and Namaqua and since about the 14th century AD by
immigrating Bantu who came with the Bantu expansion. It became a German protectorate in 1884 and
remained a German colony until the end of the First World War. In 1920, the League of Nations mandated
the country to South Africa, which imposed its laws and, from 1948, its
apartheid policy. Uprisings and demands
by African leaders led the UN to assume direct responsibility over the
territory. It recognized the South West Africa People’s Organization as the
official representative of the Namibian people in 1973. Namibia, however,
remained under South African administration during this time. Following
internal violence, South Africa installed an interim administration in Namibia
in 1985. Namibia obtained full independence from South Africa in 1990, with the
exception of Walvis Bay and the Penguin Islands, which remained under South
African control until 1994.
Namibia has a population of 2.1 million people and a
stable multi-party parliamentary democracy.
Agriculture, cattle and sheep herding, tourism and mining for diamonds,
uranium, gold, silver and other metals form the backbone of the nation’s
economy. Given the presence of the
arid Namib Desert, it is one of the least densely populated countries in
the world. Almost half of the population
lives below the international poverty line, and the nation has suffered heavily
from the effects of HIV and AIDS.
The aptly-named Cinnamon-breasted Bunting
As I drove west through the blistering hot day I
encountered several bird species I had not been able to find just a few miles
away in South Africa. Namaqua sandgrouse
erupted from the road’s edge at almost predictable intervals while lark-like
buntings sang abundantly from electric wires.
Cinnamon-breasted buntings and black-chested prinia competed with desert
cisticola for supremacy in nearly every thorn-filled waterway that I passed.
Gemsbok and springbok were everywhere and one of the species of duiker darted
across the road before its identity could be unraveled. Again there were no signs of large predators. Something was keeping these grazer
populations in check only I was unable to figure out what it was.
Karasburg is a town of about 4,000 people in the middle
of the Kalahari Desert. It’s the largest
town for hundreds of miles in any direction.
Local information said that sheep farming was the main regional industry
however in the 100 miles that I passed through getting to Karasburg I did not
see a single sheep. Karasburg is also a
major truck stop for transport vehicles passing from South Africa to Namibia. More local information said that the town had
a busy train station but when I found it the station looked dilapidated and I
wondered when the last train passed through here. More important than the train was wondering
where it originated and where its final destination might be.
A waitress named Annabelle working in the restaurant
where I ate lunch told me that despite its small size and relative unimportance
Karasburg had its share of political drama.
“We had an election here last year and about 700 people voted in it,”
she said. “They elected a new city
council. The Southwest African People’s
Party won most of the votes and decided who it wanted for our mayor. But another party, the Democrats, said the
election was full of fraud and they got the election overturned. It only stopped when this guy that everyone
liked was named mayor.”
What actually happened was about 800 votes were cast and
after allegations of fraud the person selected as mayor was recalled. Once removed from office, Ernest Anderson was
installed as mayor. Annabelle had the right idea but just had a few facts out
of place.
I asked her what people did to relax in Karasburg. “Relax,” she said, “What do you mean
relax?” Annabelle said there was not
much to do in this little town almost 400 miles south of the Namibian capital
of Windhoek. Making matters worse it is
nearly 550 miles and thirteen hours driving to Walvis Bay, the nearest Namibian
town on the coast.
“We have a movie theater and many bars here,” she
said. “Mainly what we do for recreation
is we get drunk or get stoned or maybe both and then we fuck.”
HIV/AIDS is a huge public health problem in Namibia where
the average life expectancy is now forty nine years old. The virus is spread primarily through
heterosexual sex involving high rates of multiple partners, low rates of condom
use and very high rates of alcohol abuse.
Nearly one out of every five children under eighteen years old has lost
at last one parent and frequently both parents to AIDS. Recent surveys by the Namibian government
revealed that eighteen percent of the people between fifteen and forty nine
years old carry the virus with twenty seven percent of the people between
thirty and thirty four years old infected.
With those statistics I wondered what the infection rate was like in
Karasburg and how much the boredom of life in the Kalahari Desert contributed
to that rate.
Daniel was nowhere to be found when I returned to the
Namibian border post in late afternoon.
Formalities were much simpler and faster than when entering the country
and I was quickly on my way back to South Africa where an immigration officer,
on seeing the origin of my passport, asked me “What’s it like in America?”
How do you answer a question like that? It is like being asked, “What does air smell
like?” or “How does your skin feel after you shave?” I told the agent about
Florida’s beaches and how they resemble those near Port Elizabeth. I mentioned that much of southern Arizona
looks exactly like the desert here where he lived. I told him the story of how cold it gets in
winter in northern Wisconsin where I am from.
I laughed at his response when I converted the -62 degrees F temperature
in my home town on January 1, 1974 to degrees Celsius. I told him about the huge amounts of snow
that fall in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, about the rocky coastline of
Maine, about the beauty of the North Dakota prairie and about the immensity of
New York City.
Tallee, the immigration officer, said “We see America on
television. We watch CSI: Miami, Law and Order, the Closer, and other shows
like that. If they are all true then
there must be more crime in America than in South Africa!”
Tallee then said he wanted to travel to America one day
and I asked him why. “You have
everything in America. Everything.” He
then added “You don’t have the race problems in America that we have in South
Africa. Everyone seems to get along.”
Tallee needs to start watching MSNBC and other news outlets. At least I’m glad
someone things we all get along in America.
An extremely emaciated woman approached me at the border
post and asked for a ride to Upington. I
had been warned every place I had been to never under any circumstances give
“them” a ride no matter what the excuse or reason. I told her no and then told her why.
“But I need to get to the doctor. I think I have AIDS and
I need to be tested.” Given her
emaciated condition I would not be surprised if he did have the virus. Elizabeth, the owner of my guesthouse in
Upington told me later that evening that I had made the correct decision.
“She could have had a knife or a gun or maybe both. You just never can trust them especially when
you are so isolated. I just never trust
them anywhere.”
After exploring the Kalahari for another full morning I
spent my final afternoon in the garden of my guesthouse drinking Windhoek beer
and watching the Orange River flow by me on its way to its meeting with the
Atlantic Ocean. Across the river from
where I sat there were two black South Africans fishing with just a hook and a
hand-held line. As they sat in anticipation of making a catch, three white
people in open-top style kayaks paddled near the blacks. Each white person had expensive looking
fishing tackle in each of their kayaks.
They each cast their lures into the river and one white person quickly
caught a fish that he immediately released into the river in front of one of
the blacks. Meanwhile, “they” sat on the
bank fishing with a hand held line and caught nothing.
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