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Realizing my M-16 was empty, panic-stricken; I dived into the street using
the foot-high curb as protection from return fire. My hands were shaking as
I thought back to my two years in the army. Instincts took over as I loaded
another magazine. I saw three men pile into the car behind the driver. Then
I knew I had them (all eggs in one basket) and stood up and fired, carefully
aiming at the top third of the windshield where their heads would be. I fired
an entire magazine into the getaway car in less than ten seconds. As the grey
Volkswagen came towards me I saw blood. It was as if red balloons were exploding
inside the car. I shot the driver in the head and the car slowed. I saw his
body slump over the wheel as it slowed to a crawl and finally stopped, hitting
the curb in front of me. I circled to the right, sporadically emptying more
rounds into the car then pulled the only living black onto the sidewalk and
waited for the police to arrive.
Brian, a five-foot-one, 36 year-old white South African soldier-turned-tour
operator related this story to me over a six-egg omelette and a cup of tea
late one morning in Johannesburg. As he chained smoked his way through breakfast,
he told me that he decided to carry his machine gun with him at all times
since being mugged less than a week after his release from the army.
One afternoon in 1996 he went into his bank in downtown Johannesburg. He walked
into a robbery in progress, ran out to call the police, only to find the robbers
run out behind him and pile into their getaway car.
"Couldn't you have just remembered the license plate number and told
the authorities later?" I asked over the mixed smell of cooked eggs and
tobacco smoke. I studied his face; a weathered testament to his hard life.
I knew he was not a racist or hateful man, but it was difficult to get past
his white South African accent. His words were haltered, "Rs" pronounced
and whenever he said "blacks" it came out "blecks." It
reminded me of every apartheid leader I had ever heard. He took an impatient
drag from his cigarette. I wondered where he had been, what he had seen. We
sat in silence for a moment.
"Do you feel anything for those men you killed – sadness, remorse?"
He again looked at me with impunity, "They robbed and would have killed
for money – worthless blacks." He did not use the word in a disparaging
sense. It was used merely as a descriptive term. As if to make a point, he
crushed his cigarette in an already overfilled ashtray. I could tell this
conversation was not going in the direction I had in mind. I changed my approach.
"Did you go to jail, were you arrested?" I asked. Brian looked more
insulted than he did before. He leaned forward. His voice was serious, as
he looked me dead in the eye.
"I saved the bank thousands upon thousands of Rand, and did the cops'
job for them." He leaned back and sized me up. "I got charged with
discharging a weapon in a public place, but the community and bank rallied
behind me and, due to their support, the charges were dropped. The bank gave
me a twenty-one thousand Rand reward." He said, smugly. "You need
to see the real Johannesburg, Mr. Steel." His frown and wrinkled forehead
showed no signs of pride in his declaration. He meant for me to see what a
hell on earth Johannesburg truly was. We made an arrangement. In a few days
he would show me around. I would pay him for it.
No longer eager to stay in the city, I booked a one-day safari for the nearby
Lion and Rhino Park. I had been on several safaris by this time, and had seen
a few lions but not one rhino. It's common for game seekers to safari for
weeks on end without viewing any cats (the term, used among wildlife-viewers
refers to cheetahs, lions, and leopards) so I was excited to see them up-close.
The only way to ensure tourists see these most elusive animals is to restrict
the territory available to them. This is exactly what the people at Lion and
Rhino Park have done. The various species are allotted specific regions in
the park (usually a few hundred acres) and are separated from each other by
twelve-foot high chain-link fences that run for miles. Cars enter at the front
gate and each is given a map and a stern warning to keep the car on the trail
and the windows wound up. Our experienced guides, a young black woman and
her middle-aged white South African husband informed us that the lions got
ÏfedÓ at noon, so we would have to go in search of rhinos until
then.
We immediately saw a group of large gray dots on the horizon and headed for
them. As the nearest blur came into sight, I noticed its large armored flank,
wide profile and that unmistakable meter-long horn. I realized that I was
seeing for the first time an African rhino. It sent shivers down my spine.
It was the quintessential safari scene. A mother cow with her calf grazing
under the shade of an umbrella-shaped tree, both of them lifting their heads
to stare us down. We must have stayed there for an hour watching these amazing
beasts before we realized it was time to get in position for the lion feeding.
As we drove back down the dusty trail I craned my neck to get one last look
at the great rhinos, sadly knowing that I wouldn't be back to witness anything
like this for years to come.
It is vital to realize that most parks are not anything like Lion and Rhino
Park. This park is essentially a huge zoo much like the one featured in the
Jurassic Park movie. The experience is much different than seeing animals
in the wild. This is a captive setting where the animals are fed and segregated.
The most stunning example of this was the noontime feeding of the lions. We
sat in the four-wheel drive as our guide drove right up to a pride of lions,
and parked on the dry grass about twenty feet away. The scene was surreal.
Two male lions and about eight females were waiting for a planned meal. Surrounded
by cars, they yawned, walked, and posed for the multitude of cameras. We were
so close; I could hear them breathing.
Then as if on cue, they all stood and started trotting after a truck that
the rest of us, so focused on the lions, had ignored. The truck sped past
at about twenty-five miles per hour, and as luck would have it, we were in
position to follow it, unobstructed. There were two men in the back of this
pick-up, one on either side of the huge dead horse that lay in the bed of
the truck. There was a thick chain attached to the neck of the carcass. The
truck, now well ahead of the pride pulled off the trail into a clearing about
the size of a baseball infield. The two men jumped out, attached the free
end of the chain to a foot-high post in the center of the field and jumped
back in the truck. As the truck accelerated, the chain became taught and the
carcass was pulled off the back of the truck, which promptly drove off. We
were in prime viewing position, as the lions had to make their way to the
carcass by passing right by our vehicle, just feet from my window. The lionesses
got there first and immediately started attacking the soft parts: the underbelly,
anus and neck of the animal. It was not a pleasant sight. The blood stained
the lions' faces and wet the ground. There was no mistaking the pure redness
that dominated the scene. The blood reminds one what these beautiful and powerful
creatures do to survive. I could smell the flesh as the lionesses ripped it
from the bone, an acrid and earthy fetid odor.
As I was recovering from the sensory onslaught of sight and smell, the males
made their entrance. Taller than the females, their backs easily four and
a half feet high, they strode into the clearing, which by this time had been
completely surrounded by cars. They wedged themselves into the circle, one
male roaring and swatting a massive clawed paw at a female who was reluctant
to give up her spot. Once situated, he placed his paws in front of him, sitting
like the great sphinx and plunged headfirst into the cavity left by the lioness.
It was incredible witnessing the power of the cats; their muscular necks flexing
as they tore into the backbone, the sinewy fibers tensing under their golden
coats. We watched, snapping pictures intermittently as these ten lions devoured
every ounce of the carcass. It was the essence of the stereotypical African
scene, and I loved every minute of it. Watching those lions was one of lifeÌs
rarely offered perfect moments.
It amazed me how little patience the other cars exhibited. Thirty minutes
into the feed, some cars started to back away. By three-quarters of an hour,
almost all groups were gone and after an hour had passed, we were one of two
cars left watching the lions. It made me wonder what priorities these tourists
had, and what could possibly top this as the high point of anyone's South
African trip. Were they that excited to get back to Johannesburg?
The day before I was to leave Jo'Berg, (crime-berg, as it had come to be known
to us travelers) I took our machine gunning friend up on his offer. Not much
of an offer, thought I, as I had to pay him the equivalent of three nights
accommodation at Brown Sugar for a day's worth of driving around in his claustrophobically
minute nineteen seventies Volkswagen Golf. He proceeded to drive, in silence,
through the areas of Johannesburg that have some of the worst crime rates
in the entire world. As he reached across and locked my door, he said that
everyone we were seeing on the streets was a pimp, dealer, junkie, prostitute
or gangster. The streets were filthy; ridden with rubbish, newspapers caught
in eddying circles at the base of buildings. There was barbed wired –
usually razor wire around almost all buildings, dwellings, and store fronts.
All the shops had bars on the windows and seemed dark and imposing. There
were no trees, flowers or grassy areas anywhere in the city. He directed my
attention to a forty-story round building and informed me that it had the
highest incidents of murder, rape and violent crime in South Africa.
We continued out of the city towards the poorest ghetto: Soweto. The "better"
areas of Soweto consisted mostly of shacks of tin. There was the occasional
one or two room brick structure about the size of a one-car garage back home.
Only dust adorned the front yards of these poor dwellings. If the street was
paved it was potholed and crumbling. We drove to an exhibit and memorial site
that commemorated the student uprising of 1976 that marked the beginning of
the end of apartheid in South Africa. We walked around the museum –
four open freight train containers exhibiting photographs of the Soweto uprising.
We moved on until we arrived in Kliptown – the worst of the worst of
the Soweto ghettos. We drove past tents made of sticks covered by scrap cloth,
stalls made of discarded wood and branches, erected by the side of the road
in efforts to sell fruit to anyone who had the misfortune to have to travel
this route. All eyes were staring at us as we drove into the ghetto, studying
our clean clothes, cameras, and backpacks.
I got out of the car fearing for my safety. Brian introduced us to Bob Nameng,
a Soweto local who proudly displayed his seven-year-old dreadlocks. He was
a very talkative and amazingly positive young man, considering his surroundings.
I felt instantly at ease in his company. I was to find out later that there
are no tours that let one out of the car in any area of Soweto at anytime.
As I walked through Kliptown with Bob I saw shacks made of scrap tin siding,
boards, cloth and dirty cardboard. All had low ceilings, enough so that one
had to duck even when inside. There was no running water, no electricity,
nothing. Misery loves company, it is said, and the dust, heat and flies were
only too eager to accommodate. We met some black children clothed in old rags,
no shoes, nothing. I watched them play as children do, laughing, smiling,
and sharing the one toy that they had; a bent metal bar with two wheels attached
that could be used as a makeshift wagon. They took turns rolling each other
along the dirt, laughing hysterically when one of the wheels would give and
they both went tumbling.
Bob was the closest thing to a mayor that this town had. He quoted some shocking
statistics to us as boys and girls passed us, returning home from school.
"These young women," he said, of the students passing us, "one
of the three of them will experience her first sexual experience through rape.
Also the incidence of AIDS is higher here than anywhere else on the planet.
Of the world's 34 million cases, seventy per cent occur in Sub-Saharan Africa,
and our government turns a blind eye to our community." Bob explained.
We later found out that he organized all community programs, everything including
AIDS awareness, child abuse and rape prevention programs, a shelter for the
neglected, charity collection, youth plays, soccer teams and even beauty pageants.
He ran all these programs out of the back of an old tire repair shop. Bob
showed us his "library" too, of which he was especially proud. It
consisted of about 20 used books stacked in an old tire rack. He provided
beds for children who needed to spend a few nights away from abusive parents
- two rooms with old dirty cushions on the floor. We met Gordon, Tabo and
Robert in this center, all community volunteers who worked with Bob. They
walked us through their community; between dirty shacks, under clothes lines,
over open streams of sewer water and through back alleys as they described
what they hoped for their community. It was odd. I felt safer here with these
men than at any other time since arriving in South Africa. There was a lot
of activity in the streets and Bob seemed to know everyone. Old black women
wrapped in shawls, despite the heat, waved and shouted greetings to him. Teenagers
high-fived him as we walked by and children were constantly running up to
him as one would a favorite uncle. Through all the poverty and filth, the
dirt, depression, maimed and deformed, the shantytown shacks, the hungry and
abused, Bob somehow made it seem not so grim. Every time he told or showed
me something horrible or devastating, he also let me know how he was trying
to improve it. Walking with these four young black South Africans through
Kliptown; the worst slum in Soweto, supposedly the most dangerous place in
South Africa, I felt more at ease than I had on any of my travels.
That afternoon a girl and three men came back to Brown Sugar; the hostel I
had chosen. I met them the night before, a Dutch girl of about twenty: not
pretty. Two German lads of about the same age, both fair-skinned and sunburned.
The last of them was an Italian with dark hair and very tanned skin, not dark
enough, though, to hide his fear. I could see some of the color had drained
from his face. He was trembling slightly. The group shuffled over to the couches
and recounted the day's events. The four of them had been walking, single-file
in an open-air pavilion, a shopping promenade in Hillbrow. The Italian was
the last in line as they walked and suddenly found himself at the mercy of
three men who had come from behind, one now held a blade to his throat. The
man with the knife whispered ÏDo not speakÓ as the others rifled
through his pockets taking everything. They stole his backpack and wallet
and robbed him even of his watch and rings.
Then, as quickly as they came, they had vanished into the crowd from whence
they came. The Italian had only to run a couple of steps to catch up with
his friends. The mugging had only taken a few seconds but had left an indelible
mark on the young man. He left with a nick on the side of his neck but a scar
for life.
Far away from Johannesburg, resting at the foot of the majestic Table Mountain
lies Capetown. A mixture of old and new, poor and rich, a paradox of cultures,
Capetown is a beautiful city. Blessed by the seafront and clean beaches, and
backed by a ridge of mountains, Capetown has a right to enjoy its status as
one of the worldÌs most attractive cities. Her history proves not so
attractive, though as one looks east from shore to Africa's most infamous
island. Off the coast of South Africa's Capetown sits Robben Island; a prison
much like San FranciscoÌs Alcatraz.
The imposing prison was the primary holding facility of Nelson Mandella, keeping
the former President behind bars for 18 of his 27 years incarcerated. Our
guide had spent much of his time behind bars with Mandella, and shared some
inspiring stories with us. Nelson Mandella, once locked up at Robben Island,
vowed to turn the prison into a university. This remarkable man turned the
worst and most helpless situation into a positive experience. Our guide told
us how Mandella petitioned for years to get books and when he finally did
receive them, how groups of student-inmates would study into the night. When
the guards would turn off the main lights Mandella would instruct his students
to go into the bathrooms and study using the single light bulb as their only
source of illumination. He kept a positive frame of mind at all times and
was a source of inspiration for all the inmates. Seeing his cell was a moment
of shock for me. The Staff now running the island had the cell made up to
look as it did when occupied by the South African leader. It was tiny. Grey
walls, ceiling, floor, and bars. The only break for the eye was a light brown
mat on the floor and a few books. That was the extent of his cell. It made
me angry and I was suddenly overcome and surprised by this emotion. I felt
myself lose some freedom for a few seconds. I could not transcend the prison
or distinguish myself as a visitor. It was an odd feeling, and an uncomfortable
one. I simply cannot imagine what these men, prisoners of conscience felt
on a daily basis.
A former inmate who was once locked up on Robben Island for gun smuggling
showed us around the prison. The inmate-turned-guide talked to us about the
brutality the guards displayed when he was housed as an inmate there. They
beat us. They would round us up at any hour of the day or night, bring us
into the yard and beat and whip us. There was never any reason given for these
beatings. I watched him as he lectured our group, his face black as night,
his eyes inset deep in his skull. Our guide told us some startling statistics:
they were not allowed beds until 1978. The black prisoners had to sleep on
half-inch thick mats on the cold cement floor. He remembered not being served
bread for 12 years. The only thing they were given to eat was a corn paste.
Only water to drink. The letters they wrote to loved-ones were censored. Sometimes
the guards would receive a letter addressed to one of the inmates and cut
out its entire text, leaving only a salutation and the personÌs signed
name. The white guards were, we were told, constantly doing these sorts of
things in an effort to quash the spirit of the inmates. At times the guards
would have a woman write to an inmate, mimicking that inmates wifeÌs
handwriting and state that the wife was leaving him. He told us that this,
at times broke their spirit.
Rough Guides' South Africa is by far the best guidebook available today. It
is as complete a guidebook as any traveler could ask for. Included is a sixteen-page
full color guide to the wildlife of Southern Africa. They provide detailed
accounts of all practicalities, as well as in-depth historical background
and more than 70 maps. A thorough accommodation guide including all prices
and contact details is included in every section. Adequate warnings and advice
are provided in regards to dangers in the country. The only drawbacks were
the lack of a highlighted edge-tab (which would allow the reader to thumb
to a particular section of the book more quickly) and the last ten pages of
the book that are plastered with advertisements. Other than these mild irritants,
the guidebook is the best on the market. The well-organized layout of the
guide makes it easy to follow. Found toward the back of the book is a section
that includes quotes from some South African writers as they discuss the country's
history. The Rough Guide is also more up-to-date than any of its competition.
Definitely the guidebook to pack.
$19.95
www.roughguides.com
Let's Go South Africa is a good guidebook. The Let's Go staff is well known
for its budget friendly itineraries, and up-to-date listings. I like the attitude
behind the guide. The Lets' Go writers hold the same views that we, at Student
World Traveler hold dear; that we are not tourists, but travelers. We create
our own adventures, and avoid the tourist traps at all costs, seeking instead
insights from local culture. Large maps (and tons of them) are an asset to
this guidebook and the practical information can't be beat. The accommodation
listings are fairly comprehensive for the larger towns and cities, but somewhat
limited in smaller towns. The book is absolutely littered with advertisements,
which I found annoying. They do include a language guide at the back of the
book, which is always valuable. Well organized and well laid out, Let's Go
is easily navigated and straightforward. The somewhat cursory section on historical
background could be expanded, but is a good overview. All in all, the Let's
Go guidebook is worth serious consideration, especially for the budget-minded.
$19.99
www.letsgo.com
Lonely Planet's Africa - the South was my bible for a month while travelling
in South Africa. I found it to be a well-written and extremely well organized
guidebook. It is probably the easiest book to use and read. The book's general
information on all regions and concise historical overviews are invaluable
if one is to discover the history behind today's South Africa. Lonely Planet
does not allow advertising of any kind in this (or any) volume, a practice
I found refreshing. Their occasional insertion of color photographs provides
a rest for the eye, but also makes one wonder why they would choose to use
these full color pages for simple landscape shots. A much more sensible venue
for dynamic full color would have been their twelve-page wildlife section.
Instead we are forced to make do with small black and white animal pictures,
that just don't cut it while on safari. The warnings about the dangers of
travel in Johannesburg were fitting, as was not the case with some other guidebooks.
The Lonely Planet staff has done a good job here, but as I thumbed through
my well-worn, dog-eared copy of Africa - the South, I found myself reliving
moments of frustration. The book has not been updated since 1997, a fact that
became obvious when relying on it this year. I would recommend it if it were
current but as is, the book must be left on the shelf when it comes time to
buy.
$25.95
www.lonelyplanet.com
Fodor's Southern Africa includes relevant information on interesting sights
and points of interest, but is not the book for the student traveler. The
list of places to stay is limited to the more expensive hotels and bed and
breakfasts. There are not as many maps as the independent traveler would need,
and they tend to include lengthy descriptions of cuisine and atmosphere of
every restaurant listed. I cannot recommend any travel guide that seriously
suggests a visit to Sun City (a tacky gambling Mecca) as a possible day trip.
I much prefer Lonely Planet's attitude toward the Vegas-like attraction: "an
icon of glittery kitsch ...it's pretty tacky". The worst aspect of this
guide, however is the constant barrage of advertisements. Printed on thicker
paper than the rest of the book, these ads constantly misdirect you as you
are trying to find a specific page. A possible buy for those of you who slave
fifty weeks per year in order to cram as much as you can into an expensive
two-week vacation. For the rest of us, though, who want to delve into the
culture of South Africa, this guide falls short on all fronts.
$21.00
http://www.fodors.com
Seeing is believing, and belief turns the soul loose - free from the prejudice
of pre-conceived ideas. I went to Hwange National Park to see African wildlife
with my own eyes. The park lies northwest of the city of Bulawayo, about three
hours by car. The only way to gain entry into the park besides being part
of a package tour is with your own vehicle (2 wheel drive cars are accepted).
The entrance fees are $20 per person for a five-day pass (up 100% from last
year). This sum will allow you access to the park from 6:30 AM to 6:00 PM.
The rangers provide a map but you are on your own after that.
Late one afternoon I was pondering the landscape - parched and cracked after
nine years of unrelenting heat and drought. I stood alone at the base of a
hide (a small open room on stilts used to view wildlife) and watched as a
herd of elephant crowded into a small water hole not more than fifty yards
away. I had no way to predict what was about to happen: As the sun threatened
to creep out of sight, the wind suddenly whipped up clouds of dust, and the
herd fell motionless. The honey-colored filtered light defined the change
between the cirrus and storm clouds as a massive clap of thunder rumbled over
the scene. Then it started. Rain. Full, fat droplets pummeled the land, leaving
saucer-sized craters in the dust. I stood, transfixed as the herd came alive.
Reassured that their drinking hole would be replenished by this onslaught,
they began to splash each other, trumpet and slosh around in their ever-growing
pond. I watched as the light disappeared, transforming these mammoth, wrinkled
gray beasts into black silhouettes, delicately poised against the African
horizon. I only noticed that the rain had drenched me head to foot when I,
in a barely audible whisper, mouthed the only word I could think of to describe
this incredible scene, "magical."
If you hope to have one of these encounters during your stay in the park,
but are worried that it might not happen, here are some numbers that might
reassure you: Hwange is the largest park in Zimbabwe, covering 14,651 square
kilometers. It is home to 22,000 elephants, 15,000 buffalo, and over 300 giraffe.
Rest assured, you will leave satisfied.
Our Thai driver stacked our bags in the back of the minibus, and the five
of us settled in for the eight-hour drive from Penang, Malaysia north to Surathani,
Thailand. With two Scottish lassies in back, my Irish friend Niall and myself
in the middle and an English lad sprawled out on the bench seat in front of
us, we were a motley crew. Halfway through the trip, I leaned over the now
sleeping Englishman in the front seat and asked the driver to pull over so
one of the girls could go the bathroom. We were going about sixty miles per
hour at the time. He yelled "NOOOOO!" And slammed on the brakes
in the middle lane of the freeway. I went flying headfirst into the back of
the driver's seat, the Englishman was slammed onto the floor under the two
front seats and the girls crashed into us. The driver then let his foot off
the brake and took off again. Before I had a chance to say anything or even
to get settled into my seat the Thai started yelling and swerved TOWARD oncoming
traffic and barely missing huge trucks and busses. We all started yelling
and screaming for him to stop; he replied to our pleas by pulling alongside
a massive dump truck and swerving into the side of it. Our bus barely missed
the back of his front tire before Niall grabbed the wheel and steered the
van back to the left hand side of the road as I managed to grab the skinny
Thai's arms and restrain him. He had no choice but to stop. We hauled our
bags from the bus and let this crazed young driver on his way. I got one last
look at him before I let him go and only then noticed the ring of pearl-white
powder around his right nostril.
After visiting one beach, two temples, and a bevy of backwater eateries, my
Irish friend and I decided to venture up Penang Hill to catch a legendary
Southeast Asian sunset. We argued back and forth about whether to hike or
take the funicular railway up the 800-meter hill. After taking inventory of
our run-down bodies, and deciding it was not the years that had taken their
toll, but the mileage, we sided with the majority of lazy adventurers the
base of the hill and got in line.
We had heard of the hill top teahouse, Indian temple and mosque that wait
in anticipation of tourist dollars each day. What really surprised and amazed
us about Penang hill, though, were the 89 species of birds, 55 species of
mammals and the untouched primary forest that covers its northern sector.
The cable that draws the old cars up the small mountain can only withstand
so much pressure per hundred meters so the railway journey is a slow two-stage
process that allows plenty of time to view the hill's wildlife. We watched
as butterflies fluttered around us and saw flying lemurs and even the occasional
pangolin on our ascent. We listened as birds sang foreign melodies, and stared
in wonderment at families of monkeys as they contemplated our tram's cargo.
When we reached the summit, 40 minutes later, the temperature had dropped
about 7 degrees Celsius from the humid 25 degrees we had fought at sea level.
We were suitably impressed by the view of Georgetown and the 13.5-kilometer
bridge that connects Penang to the mainland but were more so with the unexpected
zoological treasure of the journey itself.
Surprise is one of the best attributes of travel. It is always the unforeseen
that amazes and intrigues us. At the summit we found one of the most exotic
and comprehensive bird parks outside Singapore. We saw macaws, parrots, bizarre
peacocks, and a host of other species only found in the immediate region that,
unless viewed in this setting would probably never be seen by any traveler.
I believe that the unplanned, spontaneous adventurers are the life-blood of
the dedicated adventurer. Penang Hill proved a great and unexpected treasure.
If you want to go, tram tickets cost under $4.00 roundtrip and the tram is
located on a street named Air Itam - easy to find. Be sure to talk to the
cable car driver as they have some great stories and information for the curious
traveler.
The middle aged, dark-skinned Indonesian man opened his trunk and lifted
a fifty-pound boa constrictor around my neck. Before I realized what I had
gotten myself into, another huge serpent was added. I had collected snakes
as a boy but hadn't come into contact with them for years before I found myself
at the Besakih Temple in Indonesia. Unnaturally cool to the touch, the smooth
underbellies of the boas passed through my hands and wound themselves around
my arms and neck. The Temple, Bali's most venerated religious site sits at
the base of the island's highest mountain, Gunung Agung. The snakes are not
part of the temple, but the man who sells the experience is rumored to turn
such a good trade in fear, that he has remained there for years. The combined
weight of the boas pressing down on my shoulders was impressive and I could
feel their muscles flexing as they wrapped around me, trying to secure themselves.
They had more than enough strength to crush me at their will.
An intense fear of snakes usually does not stem from the crushing power of
these non-poisonous boas, but from the potential bite, ensuing pain and sometimes
death that an unfortunate encounter with the poisonous variety may produce.
The cold-blooded uniform body and strange protruding tongue also play major
parts in our fear of nature's most "unnatural" child. Since the
beginning of time man has been paralyzed by Ophidiphobia, the fear of snakes.
From the Adam and Eve fable to the Indiana Jones.
There is no motivating factor like desperation and, as the money ran out,
I was desperate to extend my stay in Sydney. I followed my dad's advice and
"got a job." The jobs I held in my year in Australia were some of
the best and strangest I have ever had. It was easier than I thought it would
be, and you can benefit from my experience because there were some snags along
the way that you can avoid. So for those of you who think that you have to
save up for months in the U.S. before starting your journey, don't wait, throw
some clothes in a bag, buy the ticket and just leave!
I worked as a waiter in the oldest restaurant in Sydney; the last place in
Australia to conduct public hangings ñ ghosts were rumored to haunt
the attic. I taught little kids how to swim three mornings a week in a pool
overlooking Bondi beach, the world-famous surf spot. I met two girls who spent
three months working on a farm in Queensland. I spent a few weeks packing
wine for a merchant in Double Bay (the Beverly Hills of Sydney) where we savored
a few rare vintages in our spare time. Considered an expert simply by virtue
of my Americanism, I was chosen to coach a softball team and lead them to
their grand final. I spent a few months behind the bar at a pub, serving drinks
and drinking with the locals who were all too eager to include me in their
crazy Australian lives. I also worked as a tour guide in the tallest structure
in the Southern Hemisphere for a few months. Seeing the bewildered faces of
the visitors as they tried to figure out what an American was doing up there
was just too good, not to mention the view from my office. All this was borne
of desperation and accomplished in a few fleeting months!
Sound like your idea of a working holiday? It was a fantasy come true for
me. I would have to say that working is Australia is the way to go. There
is no better way to immerse oneís self in the culture than to work
with the Aussies. If your goal, when travelling is to gain an appreciation
for the culture, the people and their way of life, you must surround yourself
by them in the working environment. Gaining the level of trust, companionship
and familiarity needed in order to be accepted is an impressive accomplishment,
and one worth vying for. The Australians are outgoing and friendly by nature,
but it takes time and effort to reach beyond their exuberant exteriors and
forge true friendships.
Pay rates in Australia are higher than in the United States, which make for
a higher general standard of living for the working traveler. Affordable things
like rent, modest dinners out, drinks at the pub, and taxis all combine to
make for an increased level of comfort and happiness. Australia is a very
livable society. There is a large working class, and an infrastructure in
place to accommodate this class. The Aussie dollar fluctuates around 65 cents
to the U.S. dollar but constantly figuring out the difference is pointless;
when earning and spending Australian money, you soon learn your budget. Rent
is paid by the week, as are you. I found it is actually easier to figure out
your expenses this way. Remember what you will be spending your money on,
though. Groceries are inexpensive, gas is costly. Public transportation and
taxis are affordable, clubbing is not. he standard of living for the average
Aussie is great, for the working traveler it can be just as good.
Working in Australia is fantastic, and to extend your stay, the easiest thing
to do is subsidize your tour by getting a job. You will need a job that pays
under-the-table (the Aussies refer to them as cash-in-hand jobs) if you hold
only an American passport. These jobs are easy to find if you know where to
look. If you have any contacts in Australia, use them! Ask around, and be
persistent; network yourself as best you can. Do not be fooled into thinking
that cash-in-hand positions are limited to the jobs that no one else wants.
Laboring, child-care, restaurant or bar (pub) work, farm work, and any businesses
that have odd-shift hours are all good bets.
If you can stand hard work and the heat of the Australian sun, laboring is
the best way to earn great money fast. They will usually pay a flat rate of
one hundred dollars per day (about 65 U.S.), but forewarned is forearmed,
so remember laboring work starts at 7:00 am and is backbreaking. To find this
type of employment, your best bet is to go to the closest pub any weekday
between three and four oíclock in the afternoon and look for the dirtiest
men in the place. These are the guys youíll need to speak with. The
Aussies love a schooner at their local pub after work, and usually frequent
them every day. Remember too, that it is best to establish a repore with anyone
before simply asking for a job. The division of labor in the laboring trades
is typically spread between painters, general on-site day laborers, and ìbrickkiesî.
The latter being masons. You might easily find work with any of these tradesmen.
If gritty manual labor is not your cup ëo tea, try the pub route. Australian
pubs are open all day until the early hours of the morning, so there are usually
split shifts available as a Barman or Barmaid, (the p.c. terms have not made
it to Oz yet). You could also apply as a cellerman and take in the dayís
orders of beer, wine, and spirits - all by hand, though. There are usually
shifts available in the gambling booths (known as the TAB) which are the mainstays
of Australian pubs. Gambling is legal in Australia, and the horse races are
broadcast to the pubs via satellite TV all day long while punters (gamblers)
place and loose their bets. Another service industry you might consider is
the restaurant business. There are usually many restaurants willing to hire
travelers as long as they can handle a tray and know their drinks. Since tipping
is not required or even common, the hourly wage for restaurant and pub work
is between 11 and 15 dollars per hour.
Still not satisfied? If you have worked with children in your life, you will
always have a marketable skill. Put this to work for yourself in Oz. The greatest
concentrated source of potential earning is in the classroom. If you can coach
a sport, teach an activity, or just be a responsible caregiver and make a
healthy lunch, you will find cash soon enough. Parents are always on the lookout
for babysitters and tutors. I was fortunate enough to have coached two schoolsí
softball teams, instruct swimming at another private school and get further
contacts from those jobs which led to other after-school jobs and even some
private tutoring. Your approach to the schools should be well thought out.
They will be receptive, but you must show exactly what benefits you can bring
to their program. Strike up a conversation with a teacher or administrator
and find out what the school is lacking, then offer exactly those skills to
the school official who can make the decision to hire you.
As a working traveler, you should plan to stay in a city or town for at least
a month if you want to work. Most travelers who work in Australia start in
Queensland, the North-Easternmost state in the country (where there are many
farm and laboring opportunities) and work their way south, along the Gold
Coast, Brisbane, Sydney, and finally reach Melbourne. But before this working
journey can begin, there are some points to take into consideration. Americans
can not work in Australia. Well, not legally anyway. The Australian Government
requires visas to enter the country. These electronic visas (which allow the
visitor to remain in Oz for three months) can easily be obtained free of charge
from your travel agent when you buy your ticket, but do not permit work of
any kind. Do not let these regulations deter you in planning your trip around
some work though. There are, as with any regulatory restrictions, ways around
the system.
If you have the good fortune to hold a Canadian or British passport, you are
eligible for a one-time, one-year work permit which enables the holder to
work for only three months at one job before requiring the holder to change
jobs. The visa is valid for a total of twelve months. Again, there is little
enforcement for these regulations and most employers do not know the intricacies
of the rules. Apply to the Australian High Commission (310) 229-4844 for a
working holiday visa and allow at least six weeks for the application process.
You will be required to produce: bank statements that show you have access
to a minimum of three thousand dollars, letters of recommendation from community
leaders as to your character, a trip itinerary, a valid passport, two passport
photos, and a host of other information.
Besides the working holiday visa, employers will ask any non-Australian if
they have a tax file number (TFN) as well. This important tax information
is only used at the end of the fiscal year (June 30th) but must be produced
before your first pay-day, so plan ahead. A TFN is a nine-number code broken
up into groups of three digits. You may apply for one at the Australian Taxation
Office only after your arrival in Oz. The office is located at 100 Market
Street GPO Box 9990 Sydney NSW 2001. They can be reached by phone at 132 869,
fax (02) 9374 8150. The red tape and bureaucracy are worth the payoffs for
the visa-holding traveler, and the challenge of finding cash-in-hand work
only enhances the adventure for the traveler without a work visa.
There is no better way to immerse yourself in the culture while having the
time of your life than to work with the Australians. I found that I learned
most about their attitudes and values while working with them. There are no
sure things in life and certainly none while on the road. The only thing I
can guarantee the working traveler, however is a great time.
Lonely Planet's Outback Australia is simply the best because it is a complete
guide specifically tailored to the Outback, rather than just being a section
in an otherwise comprehensive country guide. Rarely do we find fault with
Lonely Planet's format, practical advice, organization, or insight. This edition,
printed in early 1998 still holds excellent information, if not totally up
to date. Valued inclusions like the compact Geology sections and flora and
fauna descriptions are to the point and interesting. The fact that Lonely
Planet started in Australia is not lost on us here; they really make use of
their local knowledge and produce the most outstanding and comprehensive book.
The guide is packed tight with information, has excellent desert maps and
even includes a special section on how to prepare for an Outback four-wheel
drive adventure. They mention everything on their checklist from tea towels
to gasket cement. I can rest assured that student travelers will feel at home
with a Lonely Planet guidebook nestled in their packs. It is well worth its
price.
ISBN: 0-86442-504-X $21.95
Produced by Harvard students, Let's Go Australia is a good guide to Australia,
but better left in Sydney before venturing around the Outback. While not nearly
as comprehensive as the Lonely Planet guide, the Let's Go book is adequate
for getting around Alice Springs and Uluru. Let's go is better than most with
their current listings, and we are assured that their team of on-the-road
researchers reviews every listing, every year. Harder to navigate than Lonely
Planet, Let's Go is still well organized. The lack of any color in the guide
except for the annoying advertisements is a drawback and makes poor quality
maps even worse. Exacerbating this annoyance is the fact that the ads are
on a thicker paper stock, and therefore tend to stand out when one thumbs
through the guide. I do value the budget-minded viewpoint of the authors,
and the list of fun (and cheap) activities they include will welcome to the
frugal traveler. Other than that, there is little reason to purchase this
volume. Leave this one on the shelf when it comes time to buy.
ISBN 0-312-24345-6 $22.99
Rough Guides publishes the most readable guidebook, with the more detailed
descriptions of Australian culture and history than its competitors. Heavily
laden with text, there is a reasonable amount of useful information in this
guide. Included are simple and easy-to-follow accommodation listings and up
to date information on activities. The book is a guide to Australia in its
entirety and has only so much space for information on the Red Center. Thankfully
lacking in distracting advertisements, the main oversight I found in this
otherwise adequate guidebook was the need of a highlighted edge tab, which
would allow the reader to thumb to a particular section faster. Rough Guide's
consistent brash style and brutally honest reviews are well appreciated and
have made them a favorite among young travelers. This is a decent handbook
for the traveler looking to explore only the main highlights of the Outback.
ISBN 1-85828-461-9 $21.95
Fodor's Exploring Australia promises a smart, fun and informative read - for
an eight-year-old! Stuffed with pictures, the book makes one wonder why even
go, it's as if we had seen it all already after perusing the guide. Most of
the text is a cursory listing of interesting sites with little or no helpful
detail. There are a lot of color pictures throughout the book that try to
make up for the flat text and, unfortunately, the guide falls short on most
other criteria as well. While reasonably easy to navigate, it (like the Rough
Guide) lacks the highlighted edge tab, which would allow the reader to thumb
to a particular section quicker. It is a pretty book; fun, colorful and concise.
But with only twenty-two pages devoted to the Outback (a dollar per page as
it turns out), save yourself a nickel and buy the Lonely Planet version instead.
This volume might get you excited to go, but it is hard to recommend it for
anything more than the coffee table. We had expected more from Fodor's.
ISBN 0-679-00472-6 $22.00
One of a three part series on fear. See also Fear of Pancakes (N. America)
and Fear of Snakes (Asia)Spiders. Just the word sends shivers up the spines
of millions who suffer from arachnophobia. The daddy long legs, the little
dark ones, the fat hairy ones, those fiendish tan colored ones we find weaving
their webs in our back yards - we hate them all.
When I moved to Sydney, Australia a few years back, I had heard vaguely of
the native species, but never worried. After all, I was in a large city, not
out in the bush. Home to stunning beaches, a beautifully cosmopolitan city,
and excellent night-life, I soon found out that Sydney was also home to the
world's most dangerous spider: the funnel web spider. And the most feared
species of the funnel web family is, specifically, the Sydney funnel web.
It is the only spider on the planet whose bite calls for the same first aid
measures as those used in response to snake bites! According to Dr. Nick Jones
in his book, The Rough Guide to Travel Health, "The funnel web can be
very aggressive and may inflict successive bites. There is usually intense
pain at the bite site after which the venom attacks the central nervous system,
causing tingling and rapid-onset breathing difficulties, a quickened, weak
pulse, nausea, vomiting, abdominal pain, mental confusion, loss of consciousness,
and death."
Late one evening, I reached for a dress sock that had slipped behind the dryer.
My hand was about six inches away when my brown dress sock scurried toward
me! Only then did I recognize it as the dreaded Sydney funnel web! I leaped
back, ran upstairs, checked myself a hundred times over for anything even
resembling a spider, took a shower and never went back into that laundry room
again. Ever. This is one fear I am happy never to face again
What made my journey so special? For that matter, what makes any journey special
or unique? How does your visit to Paris or my visit to Australia's outback
compare with those of the hundreds of thousands of other tourists who visit
these sites each year?
Does your trip need to be different, unique, or better than anyone else's?
Mine does. I have to have what I feel is a unique experience when I travel
or I don't feel as though I am worthy of the trip -- of any destination. A
trip is an opportunity for metamorphosis, evolution, enlightenment. I have
to make it mine.
This was my challenge when recently sent on assignment to central Australia's
outback. In order to "own" the experience, I had to start out with
specific goals in mind. I had to absorb the majesty of Ayers Rock, and feel
the bush landscape, the outback as though it were my internal landscape, my
veins, my blood. I had to become part of Australia as a unique and beautiful
place, and it had to become part of me. The challenge of turning a Contiki
trip into a unique personal journey was compounded by the nature of the tour
itself: A Group Tour - the same people twenty-four hours a day for eight days.
Little time for reflection, less for peace of mind. The theory behind Contiki’s
mission is simple: get a bunch of young people (aged 18 - 35) from all over
the world and put them together on a bus that takes them to some of the worlds’
most exciting places. Great idea, but as always, easier said than done.
Travel by definition is meant for the unexpected. Whether good or bad, the
experience of the unfamiliar throws us curves and it is how we deal with these
curves that makes or breaks our trip. When it was announced to the group that
the bus-ride was going to be about six hours on one of the days leading up
to our final destination - Ayers Rock, there were the usual moans and groans.
But I thought to myself what better way to see the outback -- six uninterrupted
hours to burn the image of the vast bush landscape into my memory. Those six
hours scrunched alongside seventeen other hot, tired westerners ended up being
some of the best alone time I had the entire trip. Blocking out the chatter,
music and road noise, I sat absorbed and silent, studying the landscape; a
vast rust-colored sand desert covered with spiny tufts of pale green and gold
spinnaker grass, sparsely connected by stunted gum trees, their white trunks
stunningly bright against the blue expanse of sky and red rock outcroppings.
Traversing the outback's distances was a pleasure in Contiki's odd vehicle.
An innovative marriage of half school bus, half luxury coach mounted on an
impressive four-wheel drive chassis, the uni-mog was our home for eight days.
Except for freezing cold nights in our two man tents, and hiking during the
day, we got to know our bus pretty well. The jerky suspension and non-adjustable
bucket seats were never enough to dampen our spirits, especially when our
guide broke the monotony of the journeys by involving us all in guessing games,
face painting and gambling on our arrival times. Their Aussie accents and
wit made the time fly.
Miles, the driver of the beast, had an engaging and enlivening sense of humor,
and wielded it well. An hour and a half before dawn, one morning we were woken
by Miles blasting a tape of Robin Williams’ self-introduction to the
troops in his film “Good Morning Vietnam.” Imagine a herd of sleeping
campers emerging bleary eyed from their tents into the freezing cold, trying
to make sense out of the wild Australian darkness hearing Williams blare "Gooooood
mooorning Vietnam...hey is it a little too early for being that loud, well
it's oh-six-hundred; what's the oh stand for? Oh my God it’s early!"
It was not even close to that hour of the morning for us, it was more like
four-thirty a.m.
Actually, we were up at that hour in order to catch a hot air balloon ride
before sunrise. It was a short ride to an open field in total darkness, all
of us shivering the entire way. The balloon material was laid out along the
field and unfurled by three Aussies in yellow jumpsuits. They asked for a
couple of volunteers, and I, ever ready to experience something new, raised
my ice-cold hand. I was instructed to hold open the base of the balloon while
they inflated it -- a nice warm job I thought, envisioning the gas jets used
to heat the air. Little did I know the balloon had to be inflated first for
risk of the material getting burned, being too close to the flame. The jumpsuit
clad Aussie returned with an industrial fan, four feet in diameter, placed
it behind me and turned it on full blast. Now I’m not sure exactly how
to calculate wind chill factor, but considering it was about 38 degrees Fahrenheit
in the darkness of the sunless desert before the introduction of the gale
force fan, I’m able to say without exaggeration that this was a "learning
experience." [I have since stopped volunteering quite so blithely.]
Eventually the gas was turned on and everyone jockeyed for position warming
their hands and behinds in the glow of the flame as the balloon began to swell,
rising from the ground like bread baking in an oven. The balloon filled quickly
once the gas was on and we all clambered in, our faces aglow under the flame.
Take-off is an effortless procedure and we soon found ourselves over three
hundred feet off the ground, the sun slowly rising behind us, gently illuminating
the red landscape below. We were all happy to see the sun - more for her warmth,
to be honest, than anything else, but the scene was inspiringly beautiful.
None of the eight people in our sturdy wicker basket said a word as the sun
rose over the horizon. The amazing thing about being in a balloon as opposed
to any other form of flight is the silence. Unless someone is talking, or
the gas jets are turned on, there is no sound. Or rather, there is a sound,
in a Zenlike way, silence is its own presence, and dominates the sky.
In addition to this peace there is absolute stillness, no wind at all. Because
the balloon travels at the exact same speed as the wind, we as passengers
feel nothing at all. It is as if we are being suspended in time and space.
This was an unexpected pleasure, as were so many things in this empty, red
landscape. The morning air, cool on my face and the shadows racing across
the land awaking the plains below. It was as if the red landscape would never
end. Some people talk about the ìbig sky countryî feeling of
the plain states back home, this seemed like "big land country"
the rust colored bush land disappearing past the horizon. Anyone exploring
the outback must learn to respect its size and appreciate the fact that it
takes enormous amounts of time to cover her vast distances. I asked myself
how it was possible to have a meaningful, soulful trip when I was experiencing
the exact same thing as all those around me. I made the experience mine, not
asking if anyone else felt the same way, for fear of diminishing the experience
by analysis. This time, suspended in the middle of the outback, was mine to
cherish.
After traveling twelve thousand miles, camping for six days, fighting the
bitter cold and the scorching heat, late nights followed by early mornings,
we were finally there -- Ayers Rock, Uluru. Hundreds of thousands of people
from all over the planet come to this place to see, photograph, paint, hike
around, meditate at, and climb "The Rock." As a group, we had been
talking about the rock, its religious significance to the aboriginal people,
its supposed majesty and mystery for the first few days of our trip. Our guide
and driver, Miles (nicknamed ìKilometersî by some of us) was
always careful when talking about the rock to be impartial when discussing
the ongoing controversy that exists between the non-indigenous and the aboriginal
people -- particularly, whether or not foreigners should climb the rock or
abstain from this practice, which the aborigines find offensive.
Miles explained that the native people prefer that visitors do not climb the
rock. Yet at the same time they understand that some of us come from cultures
where climbing rocks is a normal activity, even a sport in some countries
where people hike and rock climb for recreation. The native peoples' understanding
of visitors, as described to us by Miles had a lasting impression on the majority
of the group. It was amazing to us that a culture so sensitive to the earth
and on the verge of extinction had such compassionate understanding. I think
it was the respect demonstrated to us that engendered feelings of mutual respect
that led to seventeen of the nineteen people in our group deciding not to
climb Uluru. While there was no stigma attached to anyone’s decision
to climb or not to climb, and no general discussion before we reached the
embarkation point, most just followed our guide as he began an informative
9.2-kilometer hike around Uluru’s base. The massive structure itself
was impressive. Purple in the pre-dawn light, revealing orange and rust pigment
as the sun rose, it was inspiring to see the colors change as the morning
drew on.
I was aware, during our hike, of the recent closure of the climb as a sign
of honour for a recently deceased member of the community (respect for aboriginal
traditional prevents me from printing the name or picture of the recently
deceased traditional owner of Uluru). I thought it strangely fitting that
we should be walking around instead of climbing up the religious site. Only
a few weeks before we had arrived, Uluru-Kata Tjuta National Park had been
closed. What a perfect way to experience an important part of the culture.
Being there during a part of living history would be a great experience -
once in a lifetime for most people. I was thinking, as we trekked in the shade
of the West Side of the rock how glad I was that not only I, but also the
majority of our group had decided to have a more "meaningful" experience.
We all chose respect for the traditional owners that morning.
Contiki offers the Alice & Wonderland tour for $ 349.00 (price does not
cover airfare through Alice springs where the tour starts)
Maximum 20 passengers
18 - 35 years old only
Tented and hotel accommodations and most meals are included.
Optional extras include: helicopter ride around Ayers rock, Harley-Davidson
ride around the rock, camel rides, horseback riding, and All terrain vehicle
romps in the bush.
It is rumored that one can easily find romance on the road, providing the
right road is chosen. We've heard of a few good roads and thought we might
encourage an aspiring seductress or Cassanova.
If you find yourself in Greece on the island of Corfu, romance can be found
for 280 drachma. I am not insinuating that you pay for it (especially because
that's equivalent to about 90 cents U.S.) but rather pay the bus fare from
Corfu Town's New Fortress to Agios Gordios where, among inspiring rock formations
and sheer cliffs you will find the legendary Pink Palace. The resort is a
hedonistic playground: toga parties every night, cheap ouzo at the bar and
English-speaking backpackers weary from city travel out to hook it up with
no strings attached. Women - this is your spot, togas leave little to the
imagination so you know what you're in for!
And what of the City of Light, and love? Acclaimed for centuries as the most
romantic city in the world, Paris has stood up to rivals Venice and San Francisco
as the most enchanting destination for romance. The Eiffel Tower at sunset,
the Louvre at night, the Seine, the Right Bank bathed in morning light, the
Left Bank's shops and cafes, the grandeur of Notre Dame, Place Vendome's architecture;
all conjure up images of the quintessential Paris. If you are looking to meet
that special someone to share Paris with (if even for a night) rumor has it
that Le Balajo is the place. On Thursday, Friday and Saturday beginning at
midnight, for about 17 dollars, you can hit the hottest nightspot in Paris.
Now listed in the more mainstream guidebooks, the crowds have grown and you
will find it more difficult to get in and mingle with the Parisians. On the
other hand, you might find yourself chatting with another lone traveler looking
for some company in the city of love. If you finish dancing at closing time
(6 AM) you will find several small, romantic street cafes just outside the
club. The perfect place for starting another day practicing your Parisian
accent on "Voulez vous couchez avec moi?"
The Tour de France is a grueling bicycle race that covers 3,462 kilometers
of the steepest terrain (including seven mountains) and fastest downhills
in the sport. Tens of thousands of people line the Champs-Elysees in Paris
to witness the dramatic and emotional culmination of 23 days of intense racing.
Race fans battle police barricades and jostle for position to see their favorite
cyclists. The French are different from the English and Spaniards in their
mob mentality though, as they maintain a sense of propriety and personal space
even in tight quarters. As I pushed my way through crowds, I felt not as one
against the masses, but instead an individual as part of a whole. One imperceptibly
feels and assumes, as one's own, the camaraderie of the French crowd. As the
tension built and cyclists came nearer and nearer I gave into my urges. This
realization came only after a gendarme politely asked me to climb down from
the tree I had situated myself in ñ my photojournalistic instincts
had taken over.
The biggest and most popular sport in Europe is Soccer (known as Football
everywhere in the world except America). And English Football hooligans are
most well known for their drunken antics and are considered infamous in Europe's
Football circuit. They have rioted in every major European City that hosts
a professional team. Countless soles have been beaten and even died at the
hands of drunken rioters from various countries. It is a fearsome sight to
witness hundreds of young men wearing England's traditional red and white
make their way from pub to pub before a game. Because of their vandalism and
violence, some countries have had to resort to restricting the number of tickets
sold to overseas fans, which has slightly alleviated the effects of the rioters.
As an independent observer, the actions of the mobs seem unthinkable. Actually
being a part of the crowd, though, does make one reevaluate preconceived notions.
In the crowd, one gains a sense of omnipotence - as though you have a hundred
brothers who will back you unconditionally. This, combined with the effects
of alcohol and the anonymity that a completely homogeneous crowd provides,
facilitates a loosening of individual morals and eases the mind enough to
let it begin to surrender to the mob mentality. This can happen, so much so
that one might find oneself eager to learn the words to the ethnocentric chants
that seem to well up from the belly of the seething crowd. Mob mentality is
a powerful force especially when mixed with passion for country and sport,
and fueled by alcohol.Crowd (out of) Control
Every year in Pamplona, Spain hundreds of people run with the bulls during
the festival of San Fermin. This dangerous race, which is run every morning
between the 7th and 14th of July, has claimed 14 lives and injured over 200
in its 76-year history. As we made our early-morning pilgrimage to the race,
we saw people emerge from laneways, terra cotta roofed houses and Spanish
hostels dressed in white pants and white shirts with red handkerchiefs tied
round their necks, all of whom carried rolled-up newspapers. We nervously
waited as the masses started to pour in. As the morning progressed, more and
more handkerchief-clad Spaniards and tourists crammed into the first 80-meters
of the cobblestone street. Being toward the front of the mob, I could see
the street ahead guarded by paramedics and ambulances, lined with wooden fencing,
(to prevent bulls or runners from going astray). By the time an hour had passed,
there was no room to move. At eight o'clock, a rocket shot off; signaling
the first six bulls had been let out. The mob immediately started its frenzied
and panicked 825-meter sprint from the Santo Domingo corrals to the bull-fighting
ring at the end of the walled street. As a sign of bravado; proving they were
close enough to make contact with the bulls, the runners would bat the bulls'
flanks with their rolled up newspapers, then skittishly jump away, terrified.
This crowd was definitely an "every man for himself" mob. There
was no camaraderie among runners, and the only helping hand I received was
that of a spectator helping me over the wooden fence as I leaped out of the
way of an angry bull.
Possibly the only place for a drive through wedding, Las Vegas is the city
for instant romance. When you're three weeks into that two-month road trip
and are looking for more than a driving partner, cruise on into Vegas. The
odds of finding love there are at least as good beating the dealer with 16
showing. Sin City has several locations to get married on the spot. Even if
you are not planning to get hitched, these two deserve at least a drive by,
not necessarily a drive through! Located at 1301 Las Vegas Boulevard, Drive
Up Wedding Window (702-382-5943) is the place for the convenience-minded couple
- where you don't have to get out of your car to become man and wife! The
second is a Vegas legend: Elvis' Graceland Wedding Chapel (where you can see
the King minister a ceremony) can be found at 619 South Las Vegas Boulevard.
Call ahead to be an official witness for Mr. Presley (702-474-6655). After
you've been at (or in) a ceremony, why not take your love out for a romantic
night on the town? If you get lucky at the roulette table, you might be able
to afford the monstrous hotel, The Venetian. Fashioned after Italy's most
romantic city, the hotel boasts canals and serenaded gondola rides. Don't
forget to take your love to the replica of the Rialto Bridge, where it is
rumored Italian couples go to kiss in order to ensure everlasting love. And
for those who've not had Lady Luck with them, nor any lady, there's the last
resort - the famed Mustang Ranch outside of town. Just make sure you've not
gambled your last dollar, because you'll need it there. Hopefully though,
the King will look kindly on your Vegas trip from up above, and you'll be
peeling out of the drive-thru wedding chapel with your new love and heading
into the sunset.
Claustrophobia is usually described as a fear of enclosed places. A more accurate
definition might be a fear of not having an easy escape route because, for
anyone who experiences this phobia this is the dominant feeling ñ a
need to be able to get out quickly. Claustrophobia is powerful, uncomfortable,
embarrassing, inconvenient, debilitating, and at times paralyzing. So how
does one overcome it? You simply have to deal with it. Face your fear head-on.
Claustrophobia can be experienced in no more gripping and terrifying detail
than at Moaning Cavern, California. While the main chamber is large enough
to hold the Statue of Liberty, that is little consolation after stepping off
the hot-tub sized opening in the ground, repelling by rope straight down 165
feet, never knowing how far you are from the cavern floor. As your eyes adjust
from the mid-day sunshine above ground to the complete darkness of the cavern
you feel blind and helpless, as if suspended in space. The repel, however,
is not the most nerve-racking aspect of the Moaning Cavern experience. True
claustrophobic feelings come through the exploration of deep chambers and
tight passages that wind there way outward from the main chamber. Most of
these areas are undeveloped, and there are no lights, or established tracks.
We explored the passageways by crawling, slithering, and squeezing our way
through the tunnels. It was so tight at one point in the passage, known as
the pancake, that I had to lay on my back with my arms stretched over my head,
grip a ledge on the ceiling of the rock, and breathe out as I pulled myself
through the gap. This is where you can truly face your fears.
Moaning Cavern got its name from the sound created by drops of water that
fell into a bottle-like rock formation. The drumming sound that resulted echoed
throughout the cavern, and, to early explorers, sounded like someone moaning
in the distance.
No experience is necessary. Gloves, a hardhat with light, coveralls, and rappelling
gear are provided. Guides are available to explain the history and geology
of the cavern and usually end their tours on the spot were scientific excavations
revealed the bones of prehistoric people who had fallen into the cavern thousands
of years ago. Moaning Cavern is open all year long, every day and prices are
on the inexpensive side of reasonable.
Winter hours are 10:00am - 5:00pm Pacific Standard Time.
Call 209-736-2708 to make a reservation.
Late February in New Orleans means one thing to most people: Mardi Gras, and, I must admit, that is exactly the reason I was there. I flew there with a friend who had local knowledge, in hopes he would find us the best party spots. After a few nights of debauchery on Bourbon Street, he took a friend and I to his uncle's house; a shack on the shore of some brown, lifeless river. His uncle (nicknamed Red because of his short red hair) was going up to another relative's house and asked us if we wanted to come along for the ride – by airboat! I jumped at the chance, and soon we were all piled into his flat-bottomed airboat. It looked like a large rowboat with a huge fan welded on the back. There was a captain's chair immediately in front of the fan, and seating for five. I was startled as Red (pronounced by southerners in two syllables - Reh-ed) started the motor; it was so loud. We were instructed to wear ear protection and were suddenly on our way. Skirting over the water, I realized I was the only one amazed at this bizarre commute. We blew ourselves along, Red casually steering us left or right by pivoting the propeller with hand controls. Then, suddenly we were headed straight for the bank of the river, and before I had time to react I felt the boat rise with ease over the curve of the bank. As it forged its path overland, I felt the shrubbery, mud and tall grass lightly scrape along the flat hull, under my feet. It was after I realized this skiff could cover any terrain, that I sat back and enjoyed the ride, inspired by the ingenuity of the river-culture.
Mexico's San Felipe, which lies on the northern coast of the Sea of Cortez
is the favored breeding ground for thousands of American students during spring
break. One of the most popular outdoor activities (besides beer boat races
in the pool) is cruising around on All Terrain Vehicles (ATVs) which can be
rented from Bahia ATV on Malecon road #122. Be sure not to ride them on the
dunes, unless you are prepared to pay the $100.00 fine. Pretty much just stay
in town and get hammered, beware of mechanical bulls, and eat a lot of tacos.
The bars have cheap beer, but the best values can be found in supermarkets.
So if you are a real cheap-ass, go buy a twelver of Tecate Light and get to
it. Forget the responsible, eco-tourist deal and get your groove on to overplayed
top forty songs in the dirtiest clubs south of the border and remember the
phrase "dos mas cervesas por favor, senor!"
Rich was bitten by the travel bug the first time he went to visit his Dad
in Thailand in when he was a kid and hasn't stopped travelling since. His
pursuits/interests are eclectic. They range literature to sports, art, philanthropy
and theatre. He currently spends much of his free time watching baseball,
playing tennis, and reading everything from The New Yorker to Neiztsche. Rich
is currently planning an Egypt / New Zealand trip and, as always, is looking
for adventurous, road-savvy vagabonds with whom to share the journey.
Age: 29
Countries Visited: South Africa, Zimbabwe, Botswana, Zambia,
China, Thailand, Malaysia, Singapore, Indonesia, India, Australia, The United
States, Canada, Mexico, England, Wales, Ireland, France, Monaco, Switzerland,
Italy, Spain, Austria, Germany, The Netherlands, The Czech Republic, and Hungary.
Next Trip: North Africa and on to New Zealand.
Why Travel: One word - evolution. There is no better way
to discover hidden dimensions of yourself (and others) that you never thought
existed an to grow from that discovery. Situations and sights, interactions
and events crop up that just don't exist in one's "regular" life
- everything is an evolutionary and deepening experience. Travel also puts
into perspective the material and qualitative bounty we are privileged to
share in the USA and truly broadens and deepens daily life here.
Favorite place: An unanswerable question... although favorite
moments are easy to pinpoint. One of those moments for me was watching a herd
of elephants move majestically against the dramatic sunset of Zimbabwe's Hwange
National Park.
Nepal's six-year-old conflict between the Maoist Communist Party of Nepal
and government forces has generated a human rights crisis in a land once renowned
for its peace and tolerance According to reports by Amnesty International,
both government security forces and the Maoists have committed grave human
rights abuses. These include unlawful killings, "disappearances,"
torture, rape and arbitrary arrest and detention.
What you can do: Send appeals to arrive as quickly as possible asking US Authorities
to urge the Nepalese Government to:
- Ensure that human rights are protected during this conflict.
- End impunity by prosecuting security forces responsible for human rights
abuses and pass laws making torture a crime.
- Strengthen the National Human Rights Commission, including the establishment
of regional offices.
- Ensure that those implicated in human rights abuses are not provided with
military training or weapons.
- Ensure that U.S. military aid does not contribute to further abuses.
Send your appeals to:
Ms. Christina Rocca
Assistant Secretary of State for South Asian Affairs
U.S. Department of State
2201 C St. NW
Washington, DC 20520
Amnesty International
Amnesty International has some basic Tips for Writing Appeals to Government
Officials; If you are a member of Amnesty International ($25) read the "Recommended
Action" section of the Urgent Action to familiarize yourself with the
specifics. Then just write, remembering to be: brief, factual, polite, unequivocal
in the expression of your concern for the victim, and respectful. Write in
English and write clearly, but most importantly just get writing!
Double Click to a Better World
Scared of your Senator? Here are some more ideas on the most popular and diverse
ways to give back to the world. Get involved with UNICEF (United Nations Children's
Fund) or visit VolunteerMatch.org to learn about other volunteer opportunities
in your community. Hey, cyber geek - fight global issues from your computer!
Take online action against extreme poverty via Netaid.org where you can donate
your time as an online volunteer or give school kits, educational kits or
other tools to aid local development. Practice ethical consumerism. Your sweatshop
Kathie Lee Gifford handbag or stylin’ nike running shoes may look cool
but you need to find out how goods you buy here affect people and environments
around the world. Look for organizations that produce goods that positively
affect world communities. Be like Miss America and end world hunger, not by
starving yourself but by joining results.org, a grassroots lobbying group
with chapters in communities throughout the United States. They are committed
to generating the political will to end hunger and the worst aspects of poverty.
Results.org is founded on the principle that every individual can make a difference.
We agree. How about organizing a Famine for a Night Fundraiser? During a Famine
for a Night, groups of people do not eat for 24 hours to raise awareness of
issues related to world hunger and poverty. Have no time but got the cash?
Support your cause financially. There are thousands of organizations that
you can support that are working for positive global change. For a great place
to get started visit crossculturalsolutions.org. Remember - just do it!
©2004
Rich Steel | Site design: MINE™ |