"Survival" Camping

First of all, a big thanks to everyone who commented on my previous post... some kinda record, for me at least. (If you haven't taken the quiz yet feel free to do so.)

So, I recently spent 4 days and 3 nights living by myself in the White Goat wilderness, armed only with a set of clothes, a sleeping bag, a lighter, a fishing rod (with spinners) and a butcher knife. (No tent, food, and so on.) I am now much thinner, and much wiser. Here are the things I learned...

Physical fitness is largely mental. "Only a total princess couldn't hike up this hill" is great motivation for going fast.

Getting eaten by bears is not a big problem. Getting cold, is. It IS possible to stand ankle-deep water in an ice-cold mountain lake, and still have your feet warmer than your hands.

It is, in fact, possible to a make a natural shelter that keeps rain out. I burrowed under the roots of fallen tree, leaned some logs against it, and filled the gaps with moss. Shockingly, it kept out rain. Un-shockingly, it was less comfortable than my matress.


It is also possible to fix a pair of crotch-torn shorts using a stick for a needle, fishing-line for thread, and a knife make the holes.

Fishing is much more interesting when you it is your only source of food. Especially for cutthroat trout, which seem to have two moods, "sit at bottom of lake doing nothing" and "insanely hungry." At one point, I got 6 fish on 6 casts. The first 3 came off the hook at my feet. I wanted to cry.


Contrary to popular opinion, fish does NOT taste better when covered with ashes instead of batter.


You can use a butcher knife for just about anything, from cleaning fish, to chopping wood, to stirring the fire, to sleeping with it in your hand because everyone else has made you paranoid about bears.


People suck. Especially the ones who disturbed my solitude by douseing my dry kindling in water and used my knife-chopped wood to make friggin' coffee. (Without malice on their part, but still...)


Gideon Bible pages are too thin to be good fire-starters. Now don't get worked up, guys, I only used the "introduction", not the actual pages of scripture... sheesh.


Human beings in Canada are wusses. This includes myself. I can't believe I missed salt, my bed, and the internet. Imagine, there are still people today who have to hunt/gather their daily food, and who go every day knowing a predator could eat them. It used to blow my mind that people in, say, Africa, could just sit around all day without dying of boredom. I think I could grow used to it, given time.

Almost Stabbed.. and pictures!

Pictures (in reverse chronological order, beacause they're easier to upload this way)
1) Ex-President's R80 million home/waste, Windhoek
2) Loading oryx, Namibian farmland

3) Stubborn oryx, Namibian farmland

4) Dune, near Swakopmund
5) Unloading springbok, Namibian farmland

6) the glorious Kathryn and her filthy boyfriend, Mark's Camp

7) Wild Dog, Kapana breeding center

8) Giraffes, Tremisani Reserve

9) Elephant, Kruger Park

10) Tsessebe, Itala Reserve

11) the glorious Kathryn with penguins, Boulder's Beach

12) Lion, Addo Park


So, I am back in Cape Town. I was going to write a long, sappy post about all the things I will miss in beautiful South Africa... then some a-hole robbed me with a knife on Long Street. It was all very low key...

"Give me money!"
"No."
"Give me money or I'll stab you!"
"Oh..."

I think he was as nervous mugging as I was being mugged... I gave him R40 and he ran off, leaving R100, my wallet, my cell phone and my camera but not my pride. I was, and still am, quite upset with myself for not just punching him in the face.

Anyway, my sister bought my (somewhat sarcastically named) Uno of Joy off me... she wisely took it into the mechanics, who less wisely decided to screw up the steering. Maybe I won't miss Africa so much after all...

I also went to the Christain book store today, trying to find reading material for the flight back, reminding me again that I hate Christian bookstores. After wading through the piles of "Battle" books, one for each gender and age-group (the Battle is, of course, against even thinking about sex, and features stories about brave heroes driving with their eyes half shut so they won't be tempted to check out the joggers) I found some theology. I learned that...

"We must always take the Bible completely literally, unless God tells us to take it figuratively". This doesn't apply just to the creation-evolution debate but to, say, the book of Revelation. No word on "our God is a consuming fire" and what that means.

Not only are the heathens all going to hell, but most of us Christians are as well (salvation by faith alone does not cut it), unless, of course, we live really good, God serving lives as detailed by several hundred pages of book. Or, alternatively, we can say the short prayer written in the last chapter and it will all work out.

Ingnorance of the Bible, whether due to lack of acess to said Bible or lack of correct understanding, is no excuse. Luckily for us, we have writer X who has been endowed by God's spirit with the gift of flawless interpretation.

The "best" book title of them all was "Read the Bible for a Change"... Anyway, if someone knows of some good Christian books or writers, I would love some suggestions.

This may be my last post before flying back to Canada on June the 8th, arriving June 9th. I look forward to seeing everyone back home again.

Unstabbed

Well, I am now back from Gemsbok/Oryx (same thing) capture. It was quite exciting; the whole thing takes at least 15 guys, a helicopter, a big game truck, and a huge funnel called a boma. The boma is made out of heavy canvas, attached to poles and trees, with curtains running crosswize along its length making ever smaller triangles when closed.

Herds of oryx are chased into the boma by the helicopter pilot. This is no small feat, he must drive the animals before him and get them right into the boma without turning aside. The wind must also be right; if the animals smell human scent they turn aside. Sometimes the oryx just stop, and he has to drop his chopper dangerously low to scare them into running again.

Once the oryx run into the boma, men hiding in the curtains pull it shut behind them. (Yes, this leaves them in the same enclosed space as stampeding animals.) The oryx are chased forwards into the “tip” of the funnel, made or corrugated steel plates and known as the “manga”. Once the oryx are chased into the manga a heavy door is slammed shut behind them and the animals are “processed.”

(Is all this making sense? If not, I’ll try to scan a diagram and post it when I get back home.)

A springbok, you may remember, is small and timid. An oryx is big and aggressive and built like a donkey, right down to the sandy brown coat, the stubbornness and the vicious kicks. However, unlike a donkey, it’s black-and-white head is armed with two straight, meter-long horns that it wields like a master swordsmen. Game catchers have been run right through by an angry oryx. You don’t want to mess around with these things; they can easily kill you.

To keep the oryx from killing each other in the confines of the truck (they fight when cramped) it is necessary to put plastic piping on their horns. We heat the heavy plastic pipe over a fire, scramble up the outside of the manga (there is a bar to stand on) and lean over the teeming herd of terrified oryx. The horns need to be grabbed, and the pipes shoved on securely and pounded into place with small hammers. Luckily, an oryx is built to stab forwards, not upwards, but it’s still pretty exciting flailing around in a sea of flashing horn-points. Naturally, they don’t appreciate hot dripping plastic and hammer blows raining down on top of them, and they do their best to resist (mostly just by moving their horns out of the way.) Once all the oryx are “piped” they need to be loaded. They are just too big and strong to be wrestled on board to the truck like a springbok, and they tend to be stubborn; the oryx backs itself into a corner, lowers his head, and dares you to get him out.

From the top of the manga, we make noise, thwack the oryx with pipes and zap them with cattle prods until they finally go up the ramp into the truck. The trick is to prod them right in the anus; that’s the only thing that really gets them moving. To direct them, two brave men (the workers argue amongst themselves to NOT get this duty) push them forwards with a heavy metal “pressure plate”, a massive shield/barrier that keeps the oryx moving forwards while deflecting the horns (even piped they can deliver a nasty blow) and some seriously scary kicks. Luckily, since the oryx like to stand in one spot, they don’t actively run after you (unlike, I’m told, a sable antelope. I’d LOVE to go sable catching some day. Must be a thrill.)

My game catching time has come to an end, since my uncle has no more work until next week. I return to Cape Town on Sunday, to wrap things up before taking the “lovely” flight back to Canada.

Springbokkies!

So, I’m now in Namibia, back from a 3-day springbok transporting trip. Already I remember why I love this country. Although Namibia lived in Apartheid-like conditions until their independence in 1990, there’s a palpable decline in tension between the races once the border is crossed. Violent crime is uncommon here. And many people speak German! Namibia has a tiny population and vast natural areas; there can’t be many other countries on earth where every farmer you meet complains that the cheetahs got into their antelope again. I could totally live here, and people who do concur; this place gets its hooks into you and you don’t want to leave.

The arid conditions of Namibia make farming difficult, so many farmers have decided that instead of (or in addition to) domestic stock, many farmers keep game. They then offer this wildlife for trophy hunting, tourism, and live to other game farms. Voila, you have nature conservation that is actually profitable! Once sold all this wildlife has to be moved, of course, and that is my uncle’s job, so off we went to transport 108 springbok from one game farm onto 3 others, whose previous herds those darn cheetahs had eaten.

The springbok had already been “passive caught” for us, which means you build a coral out of heavy canvas and corrugated metal (called a boma) around a water hole, wait for animals to get used to it, and then shut it behind them. The springbok are chased into a narrow corridor in the boma funneling into the back of my uncle’s game truck (a massive semi with a huge metal box, divided into compartments, for holding the game) and another door is shut, trapping them. Here the fun begins, with the loading and off-loading. Naturally, the terrified antelope don’t want to get onto the truck, and once on they often don’t want to get back off. Springbok are small enough (25-40 kg) to be handled by hand, and it’s pretty exciting.

In the confined spaces, trapped by man, the animals resist to the stress in two ways. One of which is to lie down and refuse to move, in which case you have to drag or even carry them where you want them to go. The rest start jumping around like crazy as only a springbok can (wonder where they got the name?), trampling all over the “lying down” ones and scaring the crap out of rookie springbok wranglers. The trick to controlling a springbok is to grab the horns. This provides an excellent handhold with great leverage, and has the added benefit of keeping those horns out of your flesh. The springbok can then be “persuaded” to get onto the truck, off of the truck, into the designated compartment or whatever else is needed. The scary part is barring the exit; every so often a springbok will see daylight behind you and make a flying leap towards it, in which case you throw up your arms a legs and hope that a) it doesn’t get out and b) it doesn’t get you. (At least that’s what I do, the professionals are probably more technical about it.) We even had to transfer the antelope from one truck into another in near-total dark when ours broke down, but it went surprisingly well.

All of this, of course, is in between hour upon hour of driving, some of it at 20 kph before we realized the truck wasn’t going to heal itself. However, that’s all part of the business, and you can always amuse yourself by looking for game out the window. I feel like I saw more game driving through Namibia then I did at the Kruger park. We also ate lots of biltong, the world's manliest food. (Think of jerky injected with purest awesome). Next stop? Depending on how soon the truck gets fixed, I will either be catching oryx with my uncle, or going to Swakopmund to whine about how much fishing trips cost.

FISH AND PICS

1) A bontebok on table mountain, a rare antelope hunted to near-death because they were too dumb to run away
2- the child of my landlords
3- An informal settlement, or "township" in Mitchell's plain
4- part of our catch (read below)
5- fishing boat in Kalk Bay harbor

Despite fate's best hindering efforts, I finally got to go boat-fishing, with some YMCA guys and their buddies. Some commercial fisherman have decided that it's advantageous to take visitors along for cash, so local anglers now have a chance to fish with the big boys, in ludicriously small boats. Things were fairly familiar from other boat-fishing trips... the blue of the ocean all around, the taste of salt, the smell of bait, the feel of thick handline through shamefully soft fingers and the sound of other passengers hurling over the side.

The oceans here are shark-infested from the bottom up, it seems. I caught the largest fish of the trip to be landed sucessfully, an irate, leg-sized sand shark. It flailed wildly in the boat, whipping its needle-like teeth around and wrapping its shockingly supple body around arms, waists, and lines, anything to prevent us from unhooking it and throwing it back. In the mid-depths, our fearless leader hooked the largest fish of the trip, a man-sized thresher shark. Thereafter he gave a truly expert preformance in "loosing all your line". And just to show us who was boss, a great white shark breached on the surface, making an enormosu splash and putting an immedate end to the "I could go for a swim" jokes.

The water is even more infested with hand sized bait fish, that school and swarm around the boat. It was fun, because we could literally catch them at will, throw them into a tub and then pull them out later to feed bigger fish. They were also annoying because they ate tremendous amounts of bait off the hook, but inbetween the sharks and the baitfish we still managed to catch a good number of eating fish. I got pretty outfished by the experts, but still went home with enough for a couple of good meals. Fishing rocks.

First Impressions: Volunteer Work

Transport:
I am driving daily into Mitchell's Plain,a crime infested, low-to-mid income suburb of Cape Town with an overwhelmingly Colored population. Driving for the first couple of days has been (to use the South African term) quite hectic. Armed only with a map book and my brave little Uno (which has all the horsepower of an actual horse) I went out to battle the dual forces of my own pathetic sense of direction, and the comically confusing road signs. I eventually found all of my destinations, but not without some epic wrong turns, or without tasting my heart in my throat a few times. People on South African roads drive in one of two styles: Granny and Absolute Maniac. Everyone jaywalks, weaves through traffic like it's going out of styles, and kids play “chicken” on the highways. I've already lost count of the narrow gaps I've had to squeeze my car through, often involving high speeds or police cars. However, now that I know the way I look forward to smoother, easier travel.

Prison:
Same old, same old... Generally being acquainted with prisons is a bad thing, but I come by it honestly, having done Bible studies in prisons, including this one, 3 years ago. The prisons still reek of sweat, the sick bays are still filled with AIDS victims dying slowly, and the criminals are still shockingly friendly with the visitors. This friendship, unfortunately, does not extend to other prisoners, and most of them are forced to join prison gangs, imaginatively labeled the “26s” “27s” and “28s”. The gangs look out for their own, fight each other, and pick on- or sodomize- those with no gang to protect them. We got a prison tour Monday; our classes start Thursday.

School:
The school looks much like a prison. The fences are razor-wired, with an electronic gate providing or preventing access, many windows are broken, and all are covered with iron bars. Students wear uniforms, though more attractive ones than those of inmates. The school I went to is in an area so vicious that people refuse to use their cell phones while walking the streets; it's an invitation to get robbed, or worse. Today while walking to the school, my co-teacher (boss, really) heard gun shots. He is a real fun guy who is employed full time with the YMCA, with Rastafarian-style dreadlocks, a red visor cap and an easygoing manner. The school itself cheerfully exudes the surreal gong-show atmosphere that is Africa.

We spent much of the day making out classroom inhabitable, as it is being used as a storage room, as well as a smoke room by the security guards. Nothing says “school pride” like leaving your butts around in a classroom for the YMCA guys to clean up. We're still recruiting members for our “Peer Education” class and getting them to fill out questionnaires, mostly about sex and the murderously flawed notions that many Africans have about STI's. The South African classroom is truly a battleground where the “personal freedom” message of liberalism comes up against the cold hard reality of promiscuity = death.

Then we had to go from room to room, finding last year's Peer Education students for a catch-up meeting. (Our Intercom was broken so we couldn't call the kids). Apparently the original classroom doors were all stolen, and when they were replaced no-one though to number the new ones correctly, so classrooms 56, 7 and 23 might be side-by-side-by-side.

The most bizarre meeting was with a substitute teacher, who began to preach to my co-worker about the sad state of South African youth (something that he's well acquainted with, that being his job) while I dodged advances from high school girls. Finally the sub asked one of the female students, who was draped around his neck for some reason, to lift up her shirt to show us the bullet wound on her stomach and explain what getting shot feels like. We beat a hasty retreat, mumbling excuses.

Neighbors:
Whackjobs. Sick of yelling at their mother and trying to steal our dog, the two boys (high school drop outs from the looks of things) got nice and high/drunk and yelled threats at me from their house tonight. I shrugged it off and am not too worried (when I mentioned it to some wrestling buddies, they enthusiastically suggested ways to “sort out” the problem. Mrs. R and the kid are home alone a lo,l so if we get any more trouble we might call the police.

Visiting the Charismatics

Good-Bye, Liberal UCT. Hello, African Charismatics!

(EDITOR'S NOTE: It has come to my attention that I have horribly screwed up all the afrikaans names of places. It's fixed now- I think... hopefully.)

I am now staying with my good friends Pastor BR and his wife. (No real names, so i can say whatever I like and not worry about them finding it on the internet.) Mrs. R is still the nicest lady on earth (except you, Kathryn) quiet and friendly. Their 4 year old boy defines hyperactive. He runs laps around the house, doing flips over the furniture. He demands I play ball with him, and wakes me up from naps by throwing toy cars at my head. Yesterday he ate two huge bowls of rice, and promptly vomited the second one back up. Yummy!

Last time I saw the good pastor, he was running a mission and struggling to make ends meet. A nasty falling out with the mission director and 3 years of work later, and they have reached middle class.., nice house, 2 cars (one of which is currently running), TV, computer, and they live in Kryfontein, one of the safest areas in the county. If India reminded me that stuff is unnecessary, Kryfontein tells me it's still nice to have.

The pastor is still a fiery charismatic, just like 3 years ago, who loves to "debate", mostly Christianity. Already we have discussed moral relativism, Biblical interpretation (he thinks it's easy, I don't), hearing God's voice in our lives (ditto), salvation (he's a hard core conservative who believes some non Christians will go to heaven- imagine that!), media (he has several radio shows and loves movies, but worries about their ill effects) and the meaning of hell (I'm so sick of thinking about hell. Watch for my Biblical "research" on hell once I get it off my craptop.)

I watches some of the most atrocious Christian DVD making ever. (sample dialogue: "Half of all marriages end in divorce? That's 50%!") and listen to constantly looping worship music battle with the boy's cartoons for supremacy. I am editing a story about a man chosen by Satan to make Christian leaders fall, mostly by leading them into group sex. It's crazy and bizarre; we both belong to the same religion (the pastor would say: "religion is nothing, we are both new creations in Christ") but our world views are so different. For him it's good or evil, God or Satan, black and white (though not in a racial sense, he thinks racism is dumb), right and wrong. When I think about meaningful issues i mostly get confused.

The pastor is fiery but also cynical. "Everyone tries to use you, even Christians. You have to make sure you get your share." So he's going into business for himself (he no longer pastors a church.) He runs a couple of radio shows, and is becoming a consultant, helping people who want to set up ministries and radio programs. I can't decide if he is brilliant or insane. I am helping him write up his paper work, which seems like a catastrophe in the making. He is right on one thing: the South African colored community is long on need and short on initiative, so he has the market more or less to himself. I went with him to a few meetings, building contracts and so forth. Semi-interesting stuff.

Anyway, for those of you who believe in prayer (if you don't the pastor will be happy to correct you), I need to make several big decisions in the next few days:

1) Do I want to stay in Kryfontein, or in Strandfontein with the original "host family" whom I still haven't met for the next few months? Kryfontein is safer, more central, and closer to wrestling facilities. Strandfontein is closer to my "work" and possibly more exciting.

2) Should I rent a car? The pastor has offered to let me rent his if I pay registration and insurance. This would cut down on all kinds of hassle of the despised public transport kind, but increase worries of the I'm-in-the-car-theft-capital-of-the-world kind.

3) My meeting with the YMCA people is on Tuesday. I am considering it an acid test for them, considering their spotty record of communication so far. Show up Tuesday, with a wealth of information, options and answers, and I shall be yours. Blow me off or offer vague generalities, and i shall spend some of my time doing other things.

Waterfall Climbing

Just to Scare my Mom...


Man, I love doing stupid stuff sometimes. Yesterday I climbed up the waterfall pictured. I had to shove my body through a thorn tree at one point, when the rocks got to smooth to grip onto. Fingers cut, knee bleeding freely, branches raking my sunburned neck and loose rocks and dirt falling down, but I made it up. Afterwards, I tried to climb out of the gorge I was in. About 15 feet up I thought better of it, and on the way back down my $10 G-Unit shoes slicked out, and my hat plummeted down as I hung onto a branch. A branch! It was friggin' cool, and I was low enough to find a safe spot and drop down unhurt. That was the biggest rush of pure adrenaline I've had in a long time.

Anyway, enough of climbing, I'm off to visit some missionary friends as soon as they answer their phone.

From the Archives- South African Prisons

Last time I was in South Africa, I spent 3 weeks doing prison ministry (Bible studies in prison). The work I do on my present trip may or may not be similar. I have purposely replaced names with "the Mission Organization" and the like, since these are my thoughts, not theirs.

Let’s talk about prison. South Africa can’t catch the vast majority of its criminals and it doesn’t have enough jail space for those it does, so it’s a safe guess that those who do jail time aren’t doing it for shoplifting.

Most of the people in jail are members of gangs. If you aren’t a menber of a gang when you go into prison chances are you soon will be. If you don’t are you will probably be abused and raped. The gangs actually have policies about this kind of thing: in some gangs male-on-male rape is acceptable or even an initiation rite, while other gangs don’t allow it on pain of severe beatings.

While prison life can be pretty rough, the prisoners I met were anything but. On the contrary they were polite, friendly and respectful- you wouldn’t realize they were prisoners if they weren’t actually in jail, wearing bright orange jumpsuits that say "Prisoner" on them Even their scars and tattoos don’t make them look scary. They are eager to come to Bible studies, Bible discussions and the like and are living monuments to the power of God to transform people.

The technicalities of prison ministry are easily explained. I visit a different prison every day (there are many near Cape Town), with a team of South African missionarries. The prison guards love to have Christians come into the jails, even if only because a converted prisoner is less likely to cause trouble.

All the prisoners that wish to attend lessons from the organization I work are brought into a room, where the mission people (myself included- I was thrown right in without real instruction) read the Bible, discuss the Bible, give testimonies, do Christian courses from books, all of that stuff. Sure, some of them only come to the classes because a Bible certificate looks good on a parole form, but God can affect people even when they aren’t planning to be affected. The only difficulty for me is that these guys are primarily Afrikaans speaking. My Afrikaans is improving rapidly so that I can follow along with a simple conversation, but when these guys start to get going the language is just too fast and too complicated for me.

Before going into prison, I was worried about my ability to relate positively to guys who have done such terrible things, but these guys are so changed, so repentant, and so eager to live new Godly lives that even when I know what one of them did I feel no anger towards him. In fact some of these prisoners could teach us lessons about willingness and eagerness to serve God.

It’s quite ironic that although I was worried about getting somehow hurt in the jails, the fact is that I have felt pretty safe, even though we have close contact with murderers. I have felt much more fear in the streets of South African cities. However, on one occasion something could have happened: a prison guard who was getting something from his locker failed to realize that his holstered gun was inches away from a prisoners face. The man’s eyes locked onto the weapon and never left it, like a dog stares at the food in a person’s hand. I was too far away to do anything and I didn’t want to accuse the guy of trying something (after all, he was only looking) so I watched nervously. The prisoner ended up not going for the gun, perhaps because the gun was bucked into the holster so it would take a couple of seconds to steal, or because another prisoner touched him on the shoulder and discouraged him with a subtle head shake.

Unfortunately, thes gang violence that is prevalent on the streets does spills over into the prisons as well, and while none of us have been threatened the prisoners themselves aren’t so safe. The most dangerous guys are not the older, hard criminals, but he younger gang members in their late teens or early twenties. They sharpen toothbrushes, smuggle razors into jail on bars of soap, anything to use as a weapon. One day while we were having a Bible Study a fight started outside the room. We couldn’t see what happened but there was a lot of noise, banging and crashing and then the barking of the prison dogs, which are brought in to break up fights because no one wants to mess them. What fascinated me was the reaction in the room- everyone was up and getting excited about it, myself included. "I want to be there" was written plainly on everyone’s face. Young men are drawn to violence for some reason. Perhaps a reason these people fight so much is just that they’re bored and it provides an adrenaline rush…

There are few things sadder than a women’s prison. I was warned beforehand but I was still struck by how depressing a place it is. A lot of men in jail seem to come to grips with their situation and make the best of it. Their tattoos and scars are, in many cases, like badges of honour. The women, of all ages and races look at you and try to act tough act tough but with a haunting terror in their eyes. They, too have scars, not those of street fighters but of abused wives and girlfriends. Their tattoos bear the names of old lovers- quite possibly the men who gave them those scars.

I also got to visit an holding prison where juveniles await trial It is an overcrowded, smelly, joyless place. Many of the inmates are no more than children- We go right into the cells, which are jam-packed fully of filthy, stinky boys who surround you and look at you in a way that is not entirely friendly. I didn’t feel afraid because African missionaries werew with me, but I didn’t feel too comfortable either. One young man in fascinated me because of the look in his eyes. He simply stared off blankly into space, and nothing you said to him got through. His eyes were dead, the stare of a corpse. He is likely dead by now- his cellmates threatened him constantly, for he had raped children. I also spoke to a young man who wanted to become a Christian, but was afraid of his cell mates killing him. I know the standard Bible answer, "whoever loses his life for my sake will save it" but how do I tell that to someone, knowing it might lead to his death? Could I believe, faced with that kind of consequence?

These were some of the "highlights". I apologize for the lack of conclusion. If you are a praying man, remember the men and women of South Africa's prisons in your prayers. If you want more or specific information about this kind of thing, please contact me.

To Catch a Giraffe

From the Archives... this is from an email I wrote back home last time I was in Africa in 2003, after editing for legibility and relevance. At the time, I was priviledged enough to participate in giraffe capture. I post this because, well, giraffe catching may be the most fun I have ever had.

The really exciting surprise happened on Tuesday when my uncle said he had a job later in the week and I could go with him. You see, he has one of the most exciting jobs on the planet. Trained as a veterinarian, he decided to go into the game capture business. Game capture- catching wildlife- is a small but lucrative business in Namibia. Both the government-owned nature reserves and the game farms are constantly buying and selling and moving wildlife, but of course you can’t just tell the animals to go from one place to another so my uncle atches them. The animal we were going to catch is giraffes. A group of guys who capture animals for a living needed a vet (by law, a vet must be present when large animal tranquillizers are used, since they are 10,000 times more powerful than morphine, and lethal to human beings) and so he had to go off into the bush- near the Etosha pan, for those of you who know Namibia. Off we went.

We finally reached the farm we heard the whole story. The farmer was going to sell the farm and wanted all the giraffes- 10 of them- off of it so that he could sell them separately. It turned out the capture crew- a large group of small but incredibly muscular Africans- were experienced and fearless in game capture but had never caught giraffes. We soon fixed that deficiency. Even better, I got to be a part of the team and help with almost all the parts of the capture.

The giraffe is probably the most technically difficult and dangerous of animals to catch. The reason is that they don’t react well to tranquillizers- they die. However, since a giraffe is much too fast and powerful to catch without being drugged, the game capture guys have come up with an intricate system. A helicopter pilot will fly the vet (in this case my uncle) around over the land until they find a giraffe and then chase it towards the capture team- a bunch of guys waiting in a Landrover. This was especially difficult in our case because the entire area was covered in almost impenetrable bush, so the chopper had to chase the giraffe onto one of the various paths the vehicles travelled and keep them there, at which they were moderately successful. The chopper let us know where he was headed by 2-way radio, and we drove to the place at breakneck speeds, sitting in the back of the Landrover and ducking branches. Once vehicle, giraffe and chopper were close together, my uncle would shoot the giraffe with a tranquillizer dart and the fun would begin.

The capture team then has to catch the giraffe. This has to be well timed- if it goes after the giraffe too quickly, before the drug has taken effect, it will outrun them with ease, but if it waits too long the giraffe will fall on its own and might die. We wait until the giraffe is slowing down and stumbling (as if drunk, and indeed the Afrikaans word used to describe its condition is “dronk”) and then position the vehicle in front of it. Two guys holding a long rope run towards the giraffe, stretching the rope across his chest. As soon as that is done a bunch of other guys grab the rope as well. We then let it slide around the giraffe’s legs and, by pulling, take the giraffe off its feet. As soon as it falls one man runs to its head and holds it down, which keeps the giraffe from rising. Another puts a blindfold over its eyes. Meanwhile the vet has been dropped off by the chopper and rushes over to deliver the antidote to the tranquillizer by injection into the giraffe’s neck. Once that happens the giraffe is safe from poisoning, and we can afford to take our time. Of course, the recovered giraffe is now a lot more difficult to deal with.

While several people keep the animal on the ground by controlling its head, two ropes are looped around the neck. A second Landrover, pulling the giraffe trailer, gets as close as possible to the animal (easier said than done in thick bush). Then the giraffe is released, given a push, and everyone scrambles away as it gains its feet. Using the ropes around its neck, as well as a pair of long ropes tied to the trailer that are crossed behind the giraffe, we then get it into the trailer. This is often extremely difficult since the giraffe struggles, especially when feeling the unfamiliar ramp of the trailer beneath its feet. It is also dangerous for the giraffe, which can break a leg if it falls in the trailer. However, by using a whole lot of manpower, pulling on some ropes and loosening others depending on how the giraffe reacts, one can eventually wrestle it into the trailer. The giraffe is then driven to the larger loading trailer, while my uncle and another man hang on to the top of the trailer, manoeuvring the blindfolded animal’s head away from overhanging branches (and receiving some wicked slashes from thorns in the process.) The poor giraffe is, understandably, anything but calm and makes an awe-inspiring din as it tries to kick its way out of the cast-iron trailer.

Once the large main trailer is reached ropes are passed through the body of the trailer, which as bars like a cage. If there already giraffes in there, the ropes are thrown through one side of the cage and caught on the other. One rope is used to restrain the giraffes already present, two to pull the new giraffe in. The doors to both trailers are flung open and the pulling begins anew. It is pretty easy, though, to transfer the giraffe since it has no where to go but into the main trailer. Once it is inside the doors are slammed shut and some of the more nimble men climb to the top of the trailer and remove the blindfold from the animal.

Throughout all these complicated and difficult processes, the one all-encompassing and oft-repeated mantra is “don’t get kicked.” There is a good reason for this. Any nature book will take you that giraffes can kill a lion with one kick, and they can decapitate a person with ease. Giraffes are inoffensive creatures- they don’t attack people like a buffalo or a hippo might- but anything will defend itself when threatened and the giraffe does so very effectively. It can kick with any one of its four legs, and the hard, saucer-sized hooves slash with lightning speed

No two captures were the same, of course, but the one that will be forever etched in my mind was the fifth giraffe we caught, a big female. The capture should have been picture perfect- she was drugged and driven along a path next to the fence, and was too “dronk” to avoid us as we headed her off. However, the guy on the capture rope lost his nerve- not that I blame him- because the giraffe was huggin the fence, and he was in danger of being crushed by running around to that side. I was running behind these two guys, ready to help with the pulling once the animal was trapped. When the giraffe got past them I grabbed one end of a “head rope” (the head-roping guys run behind the original capture team), ran in front of the giraffe, spanned the rope nicely across its chest and dug my heels in. The result was predictable- I am not as strong as a giraffe.The giraffe tore the rope easily from my hands, but not before giving me wicked rope-burn on my left hand and causing me throwing me rather spectacularly onto the ground, twisting my right ankle. It did slow the animal just enough that the capture team could catch up to it and encircle it with their rope. This time we got it right, and with many people on the rope- I made sure to get my left, healthy hand on it- we threw the massive animal down. I felt a savage joy as it crashed to the ground.

However, this was not the end of the story. While we were still getting the head-ropes fastened, and before the trailer was positioned properly, the guys holding the giraffe down slipped and it staggered to its feet, shaking the blindfold off in the process. What followed was a truly incredible spectacle that I wish was caught on tape. Able to see, the giraffe decided that a good offence was the best defence. Lashing out with its hooves, shredding bushes like paper, it rushed towards the guys on one of the ropes, which fled for their lives. The giraffe would then turn and run towards another group of guys- remember, there were three ropes around the giraffe- sending them scattering while the team that had fled before rushed after the rope they had just dropped to stop the animal. All of us had our turn running and pulling and it was pretty intense. The giraffe soon rid itself of every rope except one, and it would have gotten clean away, but one of the guys wrapped the rope end around a tree, and while he and I and several others hung on, the rest of the team grabbed the capture rope and wrapped the giraffe up again. Everyone was relieved then when animal came down a second time, and once we got the blindfold back on it was loaded without further difficulty.

India Report 8 from Ranthambore

ite INDIA REPORT # 8 FROM RANTHAMBORE

The tigress lay in the grass, long, thick limbs relaxed beneath her. She paid the stinking vehicles absolutely no heed... what harm did they do? Instead she focused on the deer. A herd of sambar were deep in the swamp, eating the lucsious water plants, 0blivious to the cat hidden in the grass. Herds of spotted deer- chital- and wild boar also ambleed past. On dry land lay a pair of truly enormous sambar bulls. In her younger days the tigress might have given them a go- her 250 kg of muscle were a match for any creature- but she had recently lost some canine teeth in battle with a 15 foot crocodile. She had killed the croc, but now found it harder to kill other prey.

A herd of wild boars stumbled by, oblivious, nervously regarding the vehicles. The tigress pressed herself into the grass, making herself flat, but she was painfully aware that she was visible from one side. The pigs came close... closer... almost... the tiger's explosivenes and power are equal to none, but once they hit full stride a pig or deer could outrun her. She shifted position, trying to hide in the thicker grasss, but the pigs saw her and galloped away, snorting in alarm.

The tigress got up, slowly, majestically. Every inch of her body rippled with he power that had made her the biggest and dominant female in the entire park, the power that enabled her to provide for 2 small cubsl with only one fang left. Using the vehicles as shields, keeping them between her and the sambar, the slunk closer to another patch of grass. The gawking humans above- clicking pictures and making awed faces- would have been easy meat, but she saw the trucks as one giant entity, made of rubber and metal, not meat. She gained the long grass encircling the marsh, but as she did a deer on the hill behind her saw the orange creature and snorted loud alarm. Instantly the chital that had been feeding in the vegetation scattered, and the hunter disappeared into the grass to wait.

We saw the tiger from the back of a canter, a kind of flat-bed safari truck were tourists sit in the bed, and yes, she did use it as as a shield from the deer. We waited for over and hour, tense, willing the tiger to make a kill. Several deer came close, but not close enough, and when she finally came out of the grass they took off. She made a half- hearted lope after them, perhaps hoping one was injured or lazy, but no deer was close enough to catch. Finally, the cat gave up and the canter drove us home, elated.

We have two safaris left, but it will be difficult to top this one." We had hoped to see a tiger, even just one, but never dreamed of seeing a friggin' hunt where the cat stalked by almost close enough to touch. (Oh yes, there will be pictures, when I find a computer where I can upload them. If you search for "tiger vs crocodile" or similar on google or youtube, you can see the tigress and her battle with the crocodile. (Thanks to our guide for providing background information on the individual animal.) The same guide also pronounced our sighting "the best one of the entire season." Not much else to say... that was sweet.

India Report 6

Given that I leave the mission in 3 days, and I might not be able to blog again for a while, I'm gonna write down a bunch of random stuff that I haven't jammed into a previous entry. Do not expect order, flow or any kind of rational continuation (kind of like an Indian pastor's progress report). There are pics at the bottom.

When people in India want to say "yes" they don't move their head up and down like we do in Canada. Rather, the wobble it from side to side, kind of like those bobblehead dolls some people have on their dashboards. Straight side to side means no (just like in Canada), side so side wobble means yes. It gets confusing. I try to imitate the wobble, but due to my notoriously stiff neck it turns invariable into a Ricky Martin type hip shuffle.

The "hill" I wanted to run up has turned more into a "walk" up, due not to lack of effort, vut due to steepness and heat. The whole thing is a catholic shrine... you start out at the bottom, at a catholic church, zigzag up the path past devout catholics, many of whom are doing ridiculous feats that I can only assume are a form of pennance- crawling over the cobblestones on their knees or carrying heavy sacks on their heads. At the top is a statue of Jesus crucified, and it's quite a religous experience, staggering up to the cross, gasping for breath and totally exhausted. There are moments of comedy too, usually involving the locals. Trying to find a shortcut through the bush, I quickly realized it was going nowhere, I ran back to the path, realized there was a 5 foot drop to the road, jumped off it, landed in a crouch and hit the ground running. But not before seeing the look of sheer horror on the face of a couple of women and children.., may never have seen a white man before, let along a sweat-soaked wild-eyed one jump off a ledge in front of them.

Some interesting cultural differences (so far as I can tell):
Men show affection to each other in public, but not to women. One man in particular shows too much affection, repeatedly, until I finally threatened to beat him up. Really. Ask me for the full story.
Women don't expose thier legs in public. However, they do explose their bellies, in between the "skirt" part of thier sari and their top, a sports-bra-like upper body garment that they also wrap their sari around.
Chubbyness is almost a status symbol. Since the majority of the are either hungry or laborers, and thus skinny.wiry, having a bit of a belly shows that you are not poor.

Man, the kids here lead regimented lives. They are happy (as far as I can tell) but very busy.
They get up very early to do chores, have school from 10-4, come home, do homework for 2 hours, have devotions, eat an enermous supper, and go to bed. They do get some free time in there, but not a whole lot. We've been spending an hour a day playing with the kids. The boys stop being sweet little kids and become competitive athletes very quickly. They fight over the ball (even with teammates), rally around the biggest and strongest, yell and scream and basically make good candidates for "Barbarian camp". Their hand eye coordination is just sick.. one of their games is whipping a tennis back back and forth- hard- and snagging it from the air one handed.

Speaking of sports, I think my retirement from wrestling may end. I found out that I can train in South Africa- perhaps even with the 84 kg African champ, which would end in beating for me I'm sure but might be fun. they have the South African Greco championships while I am over there, so I might go try my luck. I have done ok in Canada in Greco, with 2 national bronze medals, but that's with a small talent pool that's pretty inexperienced in the style. "Umm, arm throw? Hip toss?" As a bonus, Greco seems to require less cardiovascular fitness!

We went to a village of "bull dancers". The men of the tribe dress up a bull in bright color that is better seen than described (see bottom of post), and then make the bull "dance." there are some cool tricks- who knew that a bull could fit a man's neck in his mouth? but mostly the run around with the bull like crazy, getting him close enough that you think he's gonna run you over. The control over the massive animal is impressive. Funniest of all is the village boys, who are supposed so stay away (the bull dancers will smack them if they get within range), but who really want to be bull dancers themselves and play chicken with the big animal while imitating the dance steps.

I always find extremely spiritual places, like foreign missions, a little stressful. A constant focus on God makes think about all the doubts and questions I have. I find it hard to relax when topics like the suffering of children and the eternal destiny of human beings is constantly being discussed. What this says about my own spiritual life, and dedication (or lack thereof) to my faith I'm not sure.

I don't think I've ever met people who pray as much as the pastors do here. I've written up all their progress reports, and standard is several prayer nights a week, plus a long church service on Sunday, plus several days of fasting and prayer, and all night prayer vigils, every month. then there's family and personal praying time. I can't decide if this is amazing or excessive. However, you can't argue with results, I guess... Churches and new christians are springing up everywhere like wildfire, and this among the Hindu people, which are notoriously difficult to convert.

These pastors may wear their big bellies proudly, but they are not soft. They live in what we would consider huts. One of the big goals of our mission is to build them parsonages, houses with electricity and toilets, and most importanty, good roofs. That way, rain and snakes dont' get it. Cobras are actually a common problem. I was in one hut where feral cats came in through the roof, which means a) loads of room to get in and b) lots or mice around for the snakes to eat. One pastor actually lost a kid when a friggin' snake crawed into his hut and it. Sucks.

I would also be remiss if I didn't ask for money... I hate doing it, but the money is sorely needed, and Ive seen enough to convince me that it will be well spent. Total cost to:
build a pasonage or church-$5000
buy a 75 kg bag of rice to feel childen- $25
Sponsor a child or pastor- $25-30 per month

Email me if you are interested, please. I will gladly provide more details, but I feel uncomforable providing personal info for others over a blog anyone can read. We are currently making DVD's to "advertise" the mission, I will gladly share some when I get back home. Making these DVD's is a rediculous amount of work, since the software is posessed by anti-productivity demons.

Finally, we are in the process of booking enterance to Ranthambore national park, supposedly THE place to see tigers in the wild. Tigers! My one stipulation when going to India was "I want a chance to see a tiger in the wild." My mom and sister could plan everything else (which they did quite excellently, I might add) but I wanted that shot at seeing a tiger. Now it looks as if I may get it.

Pics:
1) A bull eats someone's head
2) awww... children with puppies! Who can resist the double cuteness?
3) Some local villagers

India Report 4ish

(disclaimer: my comments on "Indian culture" and the like are based on my observations, and people telling me stuff, not statistics or objective study or anything. Probably not true in all places in all cases.)

So, we've spent a couple of days touring villages. Despite the enormous cities in India (1 million people rates a "town"), the majority of people still live in rural villages. The villagers grow their own food and/or work as daily wage laborers on the farms of the wealthy few. Visiting them (with several area pastors) is an experience to remember. The pastor at the children's mission also leads a program that builds parsonages and trains evangelists, and he and his compatriots go to "visit the flock" whenever they have guests, once every few months or so.

A typical village visit goes something like this:

1: We drive the the village by taxi. My mom mentions the insanity of the traffic roughly once for every 7 minutes of driving. All of us roll down the windows to take pictures, undoubtedly looking very stupid.

2: We arrive and walk to the parsonage (pastor's home, plus church hang-out place). The parsonages, like the other houses, are simple structures with a couple of rooms. They have electric lights and- importantly- celing fans, but few modern conveniences. These people don't have much. They- being Indian Christians- are also a huge minority in the country. The majority Hindus are usually, but not always, content to let the Christians do their own thing. Some Hindus will even come to the church gatherings.

3: The villagers line up enthusiastically to greet us. We are given garlands of colorful flowers, a traditonal method of greeting. Everyone is grinning wide, waving and cheering and laughing. You put your hands together straight up and down, bow a little, and say "namaste" to greet them in the traditional style. We were very uncomfortable with all the attention.... the pastor's non-PC (but it seems to be very true) comment that "one white person makes an entire village happy" didn't help. Finally we realized that the villages really do love to have guests, and are basically looking for an excuse to celebrate, so we decided to enjoy being Rock Stars for a couple of days.

4: There is generally some sort of church worship. Long, somewhat redundant (especially if you can't understand) songs are sung in Telegu, the local language. (There is no language called "Indian", rather there are a plethora of them. The most common is Hindi.) A pastor speaks, messages ranging from a short greeting to a full fire-and-brimstone, yelling every sentence type sermon. (The pastor yelling in English is very quite funny, as he crechendo-decrechendos at the end of every sentence. "You must accept the Lord JEEEsus!") One of the "honoured visitors" has to give a short greeting and Bible reading, with translation from a pastor.

5: Food! The villagers get to feast, but we are served first. In India, being a good host is of vital importance socially, and serving food is 1a on the list. People bring you water to wash your hands, bottled water (it is common knowledge, I guess, that foreigners are too pansy to handle Indian tap water), and fill plates with food. They will continue to fill your plate once it becomes even remotely empty. This makes eating a tricky venture when visiting 4 or 5 villages in a day. It is rude to eat nothing, but downright gluttonous to eat a full meal every time. (I might have taken the eating challenge, if nor for my wanting to get back into shape. As well, it seems poor form to stuff yourself with food the villagers could otherwise eat.) And yes, it's the women who cook and serve food. A lot of them also work in the fields with the men. Tough girls.

6: "Playing" with the kids... they are shy at first, but once you approach them with a smile they can't get enough of the attention, though the only Englsh the little ones speak is "my name is". They take great pleasure in our attempts to pronounce their multisyllabic names. The magic of digital cameras lets us take pictures and then show them to the kids (and delete later if necessary). The kids get an unbelievable kick out of this and swarm you like happy puppies, smiling and laughing and shaking hands. I started taking flowers from the garlands and putting them in the hair of little girls. They smiled, put their hands to their faces, and beamed. It was great.

The younger women get in on the action too, waving their babies and asking to get their picture taken. They are so slight of build that I constantly worried that I would accidentally pat a mother on the head. Only the men stand back, polite and even friendly, but the young ones seem a little wary. Perhaps they want us to realize that it is THEIR women and children we are playing with.

7: Leaving, followed by waving, cheering throngs. It was bizarre, I felt like Angelina Jolie. Incidentally, the funnest part of the day was when I actually got to do something useful... Our driver got one of our 2 vehicles thoroughy mired in thick greasy mud. Since the villagers don't have cars and the pastors don't have mud, no one had the slightest idea what to do, so I got to more-or-less run the show. We roped the two vehicles together to pull the stuck one out, and the drivers almost blew out the engine on the first one. He gunned it hard, while the second driver did not bother to even turn the stuck vehicle on! A quick explanation of "drive forward with BOTH cars- and other people push" later, and we were on our way.


The villages are hard to describe in their awesomeness, so I will try to upload pics at some point. Small, crumbling houses, roofed with leaves, are surrounded by lush tropical greenery. The women and girls are dressed in bright colors, somehow keeping their Saris spotless. There are animals everywhere- manegy feral dogs looking for scraps, chickens nervously bickering in the dirt, a wobbly-legged calf chasing the chickens, and the placid water buffalo everywhere. These buffalo are more like cows than their savage African cousins, easily herded with the tap of a stick.

The sheer entusiasm of the villagers is mind-boggling. I am reminded that we generally equate "developing world" with "horrible suffering"... and certainly, suffering happens. If a villager can't get work, or his crops fail, food becomes immediately scarce. Many people can not afford medical treatment. After typing up the stories for many kids .I am acutely aware of what can go wrong. However, when things are going well, they seem perfectly content, even joyful, with their "simple" lives. Theu don't need a ton of stuff. They are thin but don't look starving. (Incidentally, most people here are naturally pretty small. It feels very strange to be tall for once. Those that eat to much get the amusing skinny-fat physique: narrow shoulders and a big belly.)

I was also impressed by how hard the children work. It is perfectly acceptable for an adult to ask a child- any child- to get him something, and the child obeys without question. However, the kids do not seem to be intimidated or bullied into doing it. They work with smiles on their faces, and it is clear that their parents (the vast majority, anyway) love them very much.

The only part I didn't like was being made to feel very soft. It feels very wussy to get treated like a king; sitting there getting fanned by a 10 year old girl is slightly rediculous. As is getting your feet washed by hand because they are muddy. As is getting asked "are you too hot? Do you need a rest?" after a 10 minute walk. I wanted to scream at the guy: "I used to carry trees up moutains in this weather! Am I made of freaking glass?"

As far as our doing any work? Apart from bringing joy from our glorious presence, well, yes, we are. We are writing a bunch of letters to sponsors, doing videotaping and scripting for promotional DVD's, and taking pictures of children for the files. Yesterday we went assembly line style through a hundred kids or so at a school: Line up, snap picture, next! The strategy of the Mission people is becoming clear, and it's a pretty good one: make us feel welcome, make us feel part of the work, so that we will want to support, and send more people to the mission in the future. Works for me.

Finally, I am speaking in the English service on Sunday. If you are the praying type, I would appreciate you offering up some on my behalf.

India Report 1

So here we are in Mumbai (the former Bombay), exhausted... just got here and already been an exciting trip.

The flight(S) were long, boring, turbulent and uneventful. I break 2 long-lasting streaks of mine... the "can not sleep" streak and the "sucky movie" streak, the latter being broken by screenings of "Driving Miss Daisy" and "Rounders". Nonetheless I was bored enough to read two books, one on comlex biochemistry (Darwin's Black Box). Ah well. Our final flight, Delhi to Mumbai, was by "Spicejet", a family-owned flying company. We took a shuttle bus to the terminal in the middle of the night, driven by a Saddam Hussein look alike, complete with bristling mustache and ancient machine gun. (All the guards have huge mustaches, it seems, but they are good-natured and helpful.) My mom thought we were getting kidnapped, especially when the shuttle bus passed through two heavy gates manned by armed guards. The airport really does look like a secret millitary base- albiet with wussier planes- at night.

Spice Jet's luggage x-ray machine is in the middle of friggin' nowhere. You put your luggage through one end, then open it up for their satisfaction, then pick it up and carry it to boarding. The flight times are indicated in dry-erase marker on a white board. I was quite relieved when we got onto an actual airplane. I was half-expecting a giant catapult or something.

Finally we had to pick up my sister, who was flying in from South Africa, before finding accomodation. We are spending the night at a Hotel called "the Palace Hotel", and by "palace" I mean "prison." Prisoners would riot if they were locked in cells as small, or had celings as low, as ours. It is run by a mob of passport-obsessed Indians (they had to take ours to photocopy them twice) who entertain themselves by sweeping, so the place is immaculately clean. We ordered in some Indian food, and have yet to vomit. (Apparently everyone gets sick from eating the food here.)

We've spent the day touring Mombai, walking the streets and taking the taxis to various "famous" locations. The streets of India are a varitable cacophany of sight and smell. Men wear (almost invariably) dress pants and button up shirts, but the brightly colored Saris and traditonal garments of the women are something to behold, shining bright against the filthy backgrounds. The stench is palpable from the streets- a pungent mix of known odors (pee, poo, sweat, fish, cows and spices) and unknown ones. It mixes with a humid, sticky smog, to create a truly unique experience. The streets are incredibly diverse- the wealthy walk by the shacks of the poor. People sl;eep wherever it suits them, as do dogs, which otherwise laze the sidewalks between playing children who pay them no heed. Even cows wander around aimlessly. Men, curiously enough, walk arm-on-shoulders and hand-in-hand everywhere. In Indian culture this apparently means friendship, not homosexuality, but it takes some getting used to, especially when a man-man "couple" walks by a loving heterosexual couple who are also holding hands.

In some places the blaring constrasts are downright sickening. We crossed the street from India Gate, shaking off the prying hands of a legless beggar boy crawling around on padded knee-stumps, and strode into the most opulent of hotels. Rich and poor, fat and starving, so close together.

Transport is by way of taxis, and it's kind of fun. The taxis compete for travellers, of course, and are not above a little bald-faced lying to get you into theirs. However, the drivers are good-natured and (in comparison to South Africa) unarmed, so it's pretty safe. The roads are something else though- narrow free for alls, with people and animals jockying with drivers for space. Drivers lay on the horn constantly, not with malice, but as way of warning: "I'm coming through!" It seems to double nicely as a turn signal also. They take great pleasure of squeezing in between other vehicles, even when it offers no actual speed advantage. It didnt' help that my mom began to squeal in fear, convincing the driver to try even harder with a grin on his face.

So, ya, India's been good. Lots to see and we haven't actually done anything. Tomorrow afternoon we take a 24 hour train ride- something I am NOT looking forward to. I am out of books and I hope I can sleep most of the way. My mother and sister are quite exhausted, and am I, and I hope to eat a spicy Indian supper (man Indian food rocks) and have a long, blisfull sleep in my cell.

Good night.

Rambling's from Cave-Man Land

(my mom has NOTHING to do with this post)

Looking up from a miserable streak of planting one day, I locked eyes with an enormous black bear. He was right across the dirt road, 30 odd feet away, looking at me. I cursed my luck, looked at him, and wondered what to do. Bears are common in Northern BC, and they usually don't bother you, but this one was very big and very close. I yelled for my co-workers (bears don't like crowds) but no one was in shouting distance. I wondered if they would be able to hear my screams as I was being dismembered. I looked longingly for the truck, but it was nowhere to be found. I tried to ignore the bear, but such a thing is hard to do.

Finally I screwed up my courage, smiled to myself at the absurdity of it all, raised my shovel and started yelling. Yelling screaming, making myself look big. I advanced a couple of steps, waving my pathetic weapon, and the mantra in my head was "please don't eat me please don't eat me". As I got closer, the bear rose to face me- for one wild moment I braced myself for the charge- and then with the fluidity that all wild things have, he disappeared into the bush. As my heart rate slowed down, relief began to flood over me, and something else... a tiny sliver of regret. So small you could almost ignore it, yet so foolish it borders on machismo. "I was ready", it said. "Why won't you fight?"

I'm fascinated by the concept of man-eating animals. Not a man-killer, who acts in self-defence or anger and takes a human life (such as a rampaging bull or an angry pitbull) but a true man-eater, who hunts down a human being for food. The black bear I encountered was obviously not one. In fact, every bear I have ever met has given way. Some dash off into the bush, some retreat more grudgingly, but I have never even been threatened. I have been circled by a yearling wolf, a lean and gangly thing, and as I wondered if my size could compensate for his speedI remembered that entire species- cheetahs, african wild dogs and North American wolves among others- have sworn off man-eating.

I have stared into the eyes of a shark from a shark cage ( see http://filth-man.blogspot.com/2006/08/instead-of-info-i-have-decided-to.html), looked down on a hunting lion from the back of an open jeep, fished in a crocodile-packed lagoon and observed an irate leopard through an open window. (For what COULD have happened, watch this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rCAoIywxFk8. My leopard took off). These are some of my greatest memories. Perhaps my most memorable experience is catching giraffes with my uncle- huge, majestic creatures that are subdued by hordes of men with ropes- and the sheer exhileration of realizing it could- and wanted to- kick my head off but I was just out of reach.

The true man eater is rare. This is due to one of two reasons (and yes, they may both be true): Either a) animals have learned to avoid messing with man because he has guns and bombs and a long, bitter memory or b) because God has put man fimly in charge, as the book of Genesis seems to suggest. Man eating is very much location-dependant, which suggests that a) has a lot of truth to it. In Southern Africa, where proliferation of guns is a major social issue, leopards exist on the outskirts of major cities without ever being seen. In India, where peasants have no means of self-defence, they become a snack. Basically, predators eat people where they can get away with it.

African Lions, the scariest animals I have ever seen- just look into the pitiless eyes of a big lion and try to feel no fear- are nonetheless safe enough that, when I was on Safari 2 years ago we slept in the Serengeti, the Okavango Delta and the Ngorongoro Crater in fabric tents. (Lion safety lesson.. a) stay in your friggin' tent at night. b) If a lion comes by be very quiet. c) if it tries to get into your tent, kick it in the face. d) If it really wants to eat you, you are screwed.) Sure the ocasional tourist gets nailed- usually because they are blatantly violating park rules (one moron tried to re-arrange some lion cubs for a picutre)- but all in all, if you are careful you are relatively safe. This is not the case in more primative areas, where human beings have the ablility to deplete a predator's natural food source but not enough technology to protect themselves. Some remote parts of India, for example.

Yes, this does tie into my upcoming trip: I was researching national parks in India to find one to visit. Specifically, I want to see a Tiger. I found out two things:
a) Most National Parks were created to protect diminishing Tiger Populations
b) These tigers eat a crap load of people.

Really... it's quite bizarre. The descriptions for some of the parks go into long explanations of how they have had, and continue to have, problems with tigers nailing locals. a year What a travel ad that is: "our locals get eaten by tigers. But come on in, you won't." ( http://www.india-wildlife-tour.com/wildlife-sancturies-india/dudhwa-national-park.html. and http://www.india-wildlife-tour.com/wildlife-sancturies-india/sunderbans-national-park-tiger-reserve.html are good examples)

I am fascinated. Fascinated by the whole idea of human beings still at the mercy of nature, who go to bed at night knowing (as I did that night in the Serengeti) that something bigger and stronger might drag you off in the middle of the night and there was nothing you could do. In bear country I sometimes sleep with a big knife, wondering if it would be completely useless in self defence. I have found a common theme amongst my outdoorsy friends- every one of us wants, deep down inside, the chance to fight a bear. Many of us even have a plan, from the truly bizarre (do a flip over the bear and stab it in the back??) to the masochistic. (A friend of my grandfather's, when attacked by a lion, grabbed it by the tongue. The lion ate his arm but was unable to get to his vitals before the man stabbed it to death.) Perhaps this goes back to our anscestral past when, like the peasants in some parts of Africa and India, a man's abilites really were measured by how hard and how fast he could throw a spear. (To make things even worse for them, most of the man-eaters come from national parks. Imagine being told the government is protecting the killer of your children.)

I do not write to incite fear in those who read this. Tourists are well protected- they, after all, bring money. I write to share my fascination. I think there is a little cave-man in all of us, a little primative sliver that feels resignation that wants to prove itself against the wild. In Southern Africa, the animals everyone wants to see are the "big 5": the professed five most dangerous animals, the lion, leopard, buffalo, elephant and rhinocerous. (I think they got it wrong though: hippos, hyenas, crocodiles and snakes would make my list). Much in demand are the Walking Safaris- a guided walk through big game territory. (My mom did one as a teen-ager. A hippo almost got her. She loved it.)

Peope in the Bible lived like this. Biblical threats are written in language the people of that time fully understood- hungry lions, bears robbed of their cubs, angry serpents. Imagine walking to your girlfriend's house, filled with thoughts of romance, and being jumped by a lion. A lion! Then imagine turning around, grabbing it by the head and tearing it apart.. and being so blase about it that you didn't even tell your parents. How cool is that?

Don't get me wrong, I am thankful- very thankful- to be living in a world of safety, where my life is not in constant danger. I do not want to get eaten, and if a bear ever does come after me I will probably wet my pants. But still... I can't keep thinking... how cool is that? I wonder how many other people (especially men, this might be one of those "guy things") agree?

The Christian Practice Room part 1

So, I finally figured out what I am doing in South Africa....

I am going to be volunteering with the cape flats YMCA. Here's the link: http://www.ymca.jez85.net/. I will be splitting my time (most likely) between the school and the prison programs, thus combining my love of incarceration with the prestige of my Bachelor's of Education. The YMCA teaches many life-skills type stuff, helping the youth from the rough areas of Cape Town to survive and thrive (gee, that rhymes). The "Cape Flats" are the slums of Cape Town and are often considered the crime capital of the world.

Sociohistorical Note: (don't you love big words)
[ The main group of people there are called the "Coloured" people. No, not as in "I'm trying talk about black people while being PC".. they would take offense at being called "black". The Colored people are their own racial and social group. Back in the day, before Apardheid, white men (mostly men, since the first white people in South Africa were soldiers, hunters and explorers) married black women and had, shockingly enough, brown children. When the government of South Africa forbade interacial marriages (which is no longer the case) the "Coloureds" found themselves ostracized by both whites and blacks. Now they are their own group. If that sounds wierd, well, that's South Africa. Legalized racism is out (since the 1994 free elections, see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/South_African_general_election,_1994), but people still think of themselves in racial- and tribal- terms.

Looking at the website it looks positively safe and easygoing compared to the 3 weeks of prison ministry I did last time I was in South Africa. "Stay in this room please, there's a big brawl in the other one, we're bringing in the dogs..." I wrote extensive letters about my experiences, if someone's interested I can post them sometime (i.e. leave a comment saying "I am interested). The most exciting part to me is that i get to live with a host family, and thus experience all the culture (and culture-shock, no doubt) firsthand.

Apart from a 3 month(ish) stay at the YMCA, I also hope to (in roughly chronological order): hang out with my South African sister, catch ginormous fish with rods and spears, visit the Andrew Murray Center and JAMM ministries (with whom I volunteered last time), go up the Garden Route, do some "extreme" touristy things (shark diving, skydiving, stuff like that), go to Namibia, visit the Etosha Pan, and I really hope to do some game capture with my uncle again. (Perhaps I'll also post my recollections from giraffe catching- I think every person who has ever met me has heard that story, but you know the drill, if you care post "I'm interested".)

So That's Africa, there will be details aplenty I'm sure. The rest part of this post is my attempt to write something intellectual and thought-provoking, as opposed to simple this-is-what-I-did-then... but it's only a teaser, the first part of what will surely be mind-blowing truth to the highest degree. Part 2 will be the stuff that's thought-provoking, so if I chicken out I can just write "the moral of the story is that Albertan Wrestlers are better than those in British Columbia." (BTW posting that on a Canadian Wrestling forum is about as controvertial as posting "George Bush is my Hero.")


THE CHRISTIAN PRACTICE ROOM: PART ONE

I remember a conversation a few years back I had with my wrestling coach. I was not on the roster of athletes selected (there were 10, I think) to compete at a big tournament in British Columia and I was upset about it. I went up to my coach's office to see him and asked what I needed to do to prove myself. I mentioned my increased sucess- in practice and aprevious tournament. He agreed with me, pointed out some things I still needed to work on, and told me "we have a lot of athletes ready to go to this tournament. Whether I find a spot for you or not, I want you to know you have proven yourself, it's simply a matter of space now. " Later that day I found out I was going to Vancouver.

In my first match, I met that year's 72 kg Canada West Champion, who was wrestling up a weight. It was a scrappy, low-scoring match, all sweat and scraped forheads and dangerous tie-ups. I remember a scramble to the out-of bounds that turned into a throw for me, fighting off a gut wrench in the last moments of the 2nd period, ribs feeling as if they might crack but determined not to go over, and finally being awarded a caution point because my oppoenent was stalling. That proved the winning point. (memory test.. score was.. 0-2, 2-1, 1-1 with tiebreaker going to me).

My feel good-story didn't quite have a hapy ending, as I lost a 3-round match in the semi-finals (1-3, 5-0, 1-4 something like that) and finished 5th, but that win was huge for me. I don't remember being kept out of any tournament I wanted to attend after that. And a rather long-winded trip down memory lane to get to my point...

WHICH WILL BE IN PART 2! BE PREPARED TO BLOW YOUR MIND!

Birth Certificate!

I have before me... a copy of my BIRTH CERTIFICATE! YEEEEHAAAAAA! And not only that, but what else would arrive today than my SOUTH AFRICAN PASSPORT!!! The one that wasn't supposed to be here for a couple of months! SWEEEEEEET! And life is good again..

So, my paperwork arrived Monday, a day after I posted my complaints.. and also after it was brought up at a prayer meeting. Coincidence? Miraculous occurence? hmmmm.... Thinking about this, it strikes me that so-called "acts of God" always seem to happen on the edge of the miraculous... my passport arrives as soon as people start praying for it, my station wagon fishtails out of the way of an oncoming truck in a manner to defy the laws of physics, and so on. This makes it easy for a charismatic to believe "see right there! miracles" as well as easy for a skeptic to scoff. "Passports arrive ALL the time!" Someone like me is stuck in between. I've been trying to figure out how, and how often, God actually interacts in people's lives. I know some of my other friends have been thinking about this as well, so if you have thoughts please send me your comments. In the meantime though I may not know the mind of God, I do know that my mind is much relieved. India-Africa here I come!!!


Finally, just for fun, some pictures of previous fun in Sunny South Africa. Credit goes to my lovely sister Anja for taking them.




I did some climbing with my cousin, who was both taller and skinner than I. Thus, when he slipped nibly down a chute of rock, I followed- and realized that, while my feet did not touch the bottom, my rib cage certainly touched the rocks- on both sides. Unable to pull myself up, I slipped, and ended up with identical gashes on each side of my chest. Cool!


The "experts" told me it wa the wrong season, I'd never catch anything (other than a truly hideous sandal tan). However, they did not fathom the possiblilty of my stumbling upon an entire school of ravenous bass. "Here, I could only carry this much, I had to let the rest go."
And Napoleon Dynamite was right: bass ARE delicious.


I am not content with the catching of mere fish, it seems. Once upon a time, I was priviledged to assist my vetrinarian uncle (in the green shirt) with the capture of an ostrich. That day I learned that not only am I less powerful than an ostrich, I am actually less powerful than an ostrich that was been winded, tied up, pinnned down by four people and injected with five tranquillizer darts.

Barbarian Camp

So I directed a boys outcamp recently at Crow with my friend Caleb Davidson. I wrote up a summary for my friends, and it ended up in the church bulletin.. so here it is again, this time with spell-check and comments so it looks less like it was written by a moron. Again, not directly related to Africa, but I've had lots of questions about Outcamp.


Hey Everyone! Thanks to all those who offered up prayers for us at Barbarian camp. I am pleased to say it went well. I have never in my life heard to many prayers for safety, and apparently they worked, since we had no injuries except for cuts and bruises.

Some highlights of the week: Boys (11-13) just being boys and, in some instances, young men. My theory was correct.. that is, given the chance, boys will gladly burp and fart and cover themselves with mud and eat without utensils and generally be deliriously filthy. Oh, and they love to hack things, we had machetes and axes going non-stop for days. For us older people there was a chain saw! The kids certainly had an enjoyable time. In addition to the straight-up fun of being a filthy savage, I think many of them learned team work and mental and phyiscal toughness. Some of these kids have never been told to "tape it up and go back in" once they scrape their knee, but I think every little boy wants the chance to be tough.

We built a sauna (supposedly the hottest one ever at outcamp), a fighting log in the river, a "chair of highest honor" covered in animal skins, and spent hours making things from wood. Many thanks to my co-director Caleb, who can make just about anything.

Trial, Trial, Trail! Discipline was handled with trials and those found (inevitably) guilty were given the X of Shame, the Rock of Shame (carrying a huge rock in a backpack) or the Dunk of
Shame (jumping into cold water). The kids loved it, so much we eventually had to discontinue the trials and just hand out pushups and chores on the rare occasion it was necessary- the kids were pretty good.

Warfare! We had numerous fighting games, including the "epic battle" on the playing field (fighting with pantyhose filled with flour), jousting matches on logs, wrestling (freestyle and sumo), boxing and sword fighting. Rules of combat were always the same, and the kids chanted them entusiastically.. "No FACE, No GROIN!" (these are the boys parts the kids are not allowed to hit). Oh, and the kids tried to kill a deer with an axe... didn't get anywhere near it, of course, but i got pretty nervous when the savages started chasing cows. I had visions of explaining to a farmer why Bessie had a hatchet stuck in her skull. Those kids were pretty hard core by the end of the week.. we had a "training session" where they lined up and we threw sponges at them for them to block with their shields and they absolutely loved it.

Capture the Woman... we hope that this one will go down in camp histoiry.. it's something that hasn't been done much... our entire outcamp took the bus back into main camp (about 100 people there), painted in war paint, wielding shield and screaming endless war chants. We kidnapped the Program Director of main camp (with her full knowledge and participation) and her campers (who incidentally were at Superhero camp) had to come rescue her. We barricaded a cabin door with nets and shield walls and waged all out medieval style warfare, with water balooons, sponges and socks filled with flour flying everywhere... though the woman was eventaully rescued, the 25 of us put up a great show for over half an hour.. apparently the fearlessness of the barbarian horde and our shield training had worked. Other, experienced staff members told me that they had never seen an entire camp so entusiastic about a game. We couldn't even play a second time for fear of actual war breaking out!

The spiritual side of camp was handled by our speaker, the very barbaric 300 lb Perc Denam, who spoke on different men in the Bible, most of them warriors, who were used by God. He reminded us that, as Christians we are "barbarians"- strangers in a strange land.. and encouraged the kids to make their days count, do somethggn with their lives, like the barbarians of old who wanted to go out on their shield rather than live out their days doing nothing. The messages were pretty good, though I wish we (the program directors) had planned time and devotional materials for the messages better, and given more time for the kids to reflect. Hopefully God spoke to the kdis in spite of our imperfect presentation. Anyway, that was Barbarian camp, I loved it, I'm sorry its over, and maybe someday we can do something like that again.