Monday, December 30, 2013

Cape Cross Lodge - Skeleton Coast




From the bedroom I spot a sea bird.  Black.  Gull-like but not a gull. Soars the wind on the waves.  No flapping of wings.  Not a cormorant.  Too far away to make it out.

A jackal trots across the sand outside the dining room window.  It is wary though purposeful, stopping and looking behind every few metres.  Eventually it jumps down onto the beach, disappearing from view.

A string of cormorants head south along the coast.  Occasionally the whole flock, at least thirty birds, disappears behind the heavy Atlantic swell.


 ***

Sound of the sea all night.  Waves.  A constant rumble.  And wind.  It was hard to tell the difference as I lay awake in the darkness.

This morning the jackal trots back the other way as I watch foaming, raging breakers from the bedroom window.  It’s the same animal, with one floppy ear.  Returning from a night of raiding the seal colony.

Moist cool air.  A contrast from the hot dry interior.

Notes from the Skeleton Coast: Industrialised past








The oil drill rig is so rusted its steel plates look like lace curtain:  eaten away by salt air and wind-driven sand.

The derrick, collapsed and toppled into the sand.  Nearby, hyena and jackal tracks head away into the desert.  Why did they come here?  Where do they go?

Abandoned diamond mine:  Remains of a jetty or pipeline juts out into the sea.  T-shaped pillars.  Cormorants sit drying their wings.  It pollutes the empty vastness of the desert beach. Yet, slowly, the desert and the sea are breaking it down.  Claiming it.  Sand covers it and rust erodes it.  One day, it may all be covered or broken or gone.  








Notes from a Namibian Winter










Damaraland:

Etosha to the Skeleton Coast.

It has been up to 36 degrees Celsius here in Damaraland.  A stark beauty.  The earth has turned from white to red and from the featureless flatness of Ovamboland to the broken red hills and mountains of Damaraland.

Mostly dirt road from Khorixas.  Didn’t deflate the tyres but should have:  was sliding around a bit.  Will deflate them before the long day on the gravel tomorrow.

Looking forward to the sea after a month of being  inland.  Looking forward to the cool after weeks of mid-thirty degree heat.


Wednesday, October 30, 2013

Hustlers and Ropey Boats in the Philippines

A version of this story appeared in the Sunday Times Travel Weekly



As our helpless boat drifted closer to the rocks, the Filipina woman got more panicky.  The more panicky she got the more her American husband ignored her.  Bats the size of cats circled the thick jungle trees on the cliff tops.  My thoughts turned from how to get my backpack and camera from the floundering boat onto the rocks without getting them wet, to how we were going to get the frightened woman and her overweight husband ashore without one of them drowning.  It felt too early in the journey for an adventure.

Meanwhile, the boat-boys had their bottoms in the air and their heads down in the engine housing.  A pin that attached some or other rod to the propeller shaft had sheared and they were trying various makeshift solutions to hold things together until we reached the beach resort.  Nothing seemed to be working. Every time they started the engine the power would be too much for the little bit of wire they’d used to secure the link. 

At every failed effort the woman whimpered, the boatmen cursed and we all wallowed on the swell.  The rocks got closer, much closer.

With the rocks now only about ten metres away I decided to find a dry place to put my money which I kept under the insoles of my boots.  Credit cards were an alien concept to me then and even if I’d had one there are many places in the remoter islands of the archipelago that don’t take them.  I carried some of those as a safety net.

I tried to think where the driest spot would be for my dollars if I had to swim for it.  Then the engine chug-chugged and kept chugging, the boatmen whooped and laughed, full of joy and big smiles.  They’d fixed the problem.  I laced up my boots again.

I had arrived in Manila from Hong Kong the night before and checked into a hotel in the centre of town.  A pleasant change from the budget accommodation I usually used in the scruffy districts of Malati and Ermita.  After dinner I wandered into the nearest bar for a nightcap and some company.  The velvet curtain at the entrance should have been a giveaway.  Inside, a young woman in a lycra outfit was slinking half-heartedly up and down the dimly lit bar-top, occasionally curling herself around the chrome poll before walking back the other way.  She looked bored.  A few middle aged westerners were dotted around the bar, far enough away from each other not to have to engage in conversation.  I conformed and sat at a respectful distance.  After a couple of beers and some attempts by the girls to get me to take them home, I left. Alone.

I arrived at the port the next day looking for the local ferry for Puerto Galera.  Not the fast, expensive tourist boat, but the local banca.  These long, narrow boats with bamboo outriggers and single cylinder engines are the mainstay of inter-island transport.  But to find the right one at a busy port requires either some local knowledge or a knowledgeable local.  I had neither. 

I was quickly surrounded by a small band of men in faded t-shirts and cut-off jeans.  “You want boat to Puerto?”  I said I did and was bustled along towards the quayside.  “You pay now”.  Five of them were pulling and pushing and plucking at my shirt.  “You pay now!”  They said pointing to a boat full of people.

The vagabonds on the quayside had nothing to do with the little boat to Puerto.  They weren’t touts, they were conmen.  A passenger explained that I’d paid five times the fare.  I asked the boatmen how much I owed them but they refused payment, embarrassed that a visitor to their country had been swindled.   It was a reminder of why I was back in those beautiful islands with their warm and generous people.

Friday, October 11, 2013

Scaling the Turret - A hike in the Kouebokkeveld



You can’t beat camping wild with a great group of people on the top of a rugged mountain.  It’s especially rewarding when you’ve hauled a heavy pack and tent up a steep pathless gorge.  Actually, you can beat it:  by being a lot fitter than I was this last weekend!

Here is a selection of photographs from the Mountain Club hike up to Turret Peak in the Kouebokkeveld.

 Turret Peak - View from the bottom.


Checking the route



The Waterfall
Cape Mountains - Need I say more?


Some bouldering practice