Travelling the safari lodges of Botswana one soon realizes what the locals have long known- their Setwana names are impossible for a Westerner to pronounce. So, a custom has grown up in the service industry for workers to adopt simple, pronounceable nicknames, to cater to us linguistically challenged tourists. Continue reading
I had a moment of lucidity towards the end of my first year law school exams, and decided to put the paper chase on hold for a while, and bolted for the freedom of the open road.
I joined a small group of like-minded vagabonds and a couple of crazy Aussies who just happened to own a secondhand Bedford Army truck, which we decided to drive from London to Nairobi, across the Sahara desert, through the jungle of the Congo and on to the Great Plains of the Serengeti.
It was the adventure of a lifetime, and the Christmas season of 1973 found us approaching the border between the Congo and Rwanda, a border which abruptly and unexpectedly clanged shut in our faces in a snafu over expired exit Visas (or possibly a miscalculation of the size of the Christmas present expected by the border guards.)
Christmas eve found us rolling out our sleeping bags on what passed as the front lawn of a small mission church, in a tiny jungle hamlet where poinsettias bloomed naturally by the roadside. We made a stab at holiday decorating by up-ending a large hand of Bananas and festooning it with bits of tin foil.
My journal for Christmas eve recorded: “at dinner time, a group of youngsters, led by a guy wearing a band leader’s cap appeared, going door to door, singing some sort of chant-a local version of Christmas carols we guessed-stopping at our truck where we tipped them a few coins.
“Wieners and beans and smash for dinner – about 7:00PM Firos, one of the Cypriots who operate the trading post at the crossroads came by to quietly invite us to a Christmas party. Quietly, because Mbuto, the Congolese leader, introduced draconian measures against the local white population last month – confiscating land, businesses and money. In the aftermath, a ban has been imposed on gatherings of more than five whites, in order to throttle any dissent.
“Firos’ place, a couple of rooms tacked onto the back of the store, was the universal ‘bachelor pad- messy kitchen, but a fridge full of Makasi beer, and an empty living room except for a stereo and a stack of records sitting on an empty beer crate an a bedroom. painted black, with nude pin-ups as wall paper.
” About five guys were there when we arrived, and others filtered in during the evening As the bash got underway loud rock & roll gave way to Greek folk music – and the crockery started to fly as we were taught the rudiments of Greek dancing. The party ended with a drunken sing-song – Jingle Bells, Silent Night, Oh Suzanna (for some unknown reason!) and a beautiful medley of Spanish Christmas songs sung by a maudlin Spanish ex-pat suddenly grown very homesick.”
My journal reveals that much of Christmas day was taken up with nursing a hang over and trying to locate a black market source of diesel, as we were literally running on fumes, and the gas stations (all owned by whites) had been shut down in consequence of Mbuto’s ‘reforms’ It also records our Christmas dinner in some detail:
“We started about 2:00PM- first course was canned beef stroganoff (and beer) , followed by a very hot spanish rice salad that no-one could eat.(and beer) Next, canned ham, with canned new potatoes, and canned mushrooms,(and beer) accompanied by fresh bread, and tinned margarine, all topped off with tinned Christmas pudding topped with tinned Danish cream, (and beer) afterwards, people seemed to just drift off and crash -too much food -too much beer.”
“Boxing day – a cop arrived at breakfast with a letter addressed to “Monsieur le Chef de groupe des hippies”. We have been ordered out of town! Managed to score most of the fuel we needed from the guy that runs the brewery, and managed to clear the town by 4:30 and made about 60km by nightfall”
Christmas in the Congo- they don’t make ’em like that any more !
This year I’m riding the BC ferry for adventure – how about you?
Even as a youth, long before I had a university degree in the subject, I was an economist.
Then, my task was simply to squeeze every last ounce of value for money from my daily ski pass: nagging parents to get me to the hill before the lifts opened, skiing at breakneck speed to get to the bottom faster, then cutting the lift lines trying to beat the hordes to the top again. I skied long after my jeans had turned stiff with ice, my feet had gone numb and my legs had turned to jelly. The game was to pack as many runs as possible into a day, and winning was measured by an ever diminishing ‘cost per run’
A half-century later many things have changed. Very expensive but infinitely more comfortable gear has replaced frozen jeans and lace up leather boots, and ‘vertical feet skied ‘are now tracked with a smart phone app, but the boy inside me has not.
Skiing economics is still a shrewd calculus, and the game is still to squeeze the most vertical feet out of each lift pass dollar. So, each year at this time there begins a grand game of chess between the boy inside me and the lift pass purveyors of Whistler Blackcomb. Which pass should I pre-order for next winter to ensure the ultimate bang for my bucks? It is a match which, sadly, I have lost for the past several years, ending the season with unused days on my multi- day pass. As they expire with the melting of the snow those days taunt me: Whistler won -I paid for more runs than I was able to ski!
Granted, there are reasons for my losses. I have been variously side-lined by accident and illness, and even by clients who unreasonably expected me to attend to their legal needs on perfect, bluebird, powder days. Truly, there is no justice!
With the sale of Whistler to Vail Resorts I face a new, and possibly craftier Chess Master this year, with Vail announcing an array of new options to tempt and bewilder.
At a quick glance, the best possible bargains are available to local students. I tried that one on for size, explaining to the sales rep that I was a Student of Life, so should be entitled to the best rate, but alas to no avail.
Next to catch my eye was the “Founder’s Pass”, a full season pass with extra perks, offering 50% tax deductibility as a charitable donation to the Whistler Foundation. Since skiing and dodging CRA are two of my favourite activities, the combo looked irresistible – until I clicked through to the price – a cool $6,000 ! One of the founder’s pass perks is lift tine priority for your first ride up the mountain each day, to avoid the plebeian scrum. Frankly, Mr. Vail, I would expect an honour guard of liveried lift attendants and my personal gondola for that price!
The new pass getting most of the press however is the “Epic Pass”. It’s lure is its portability, – you can ski practically anywhere on the planet with it. It fired my imagination immediately- perhaps I should buy one and create the ski bum winter I never had as a youth, flitting from Whistler to Kicking Horse to Vail, catching some Telluride powder, and exploring Park City and Arapahoe Basin before heading east to the famous glades of Stowe and Mount St Anne, then on to Europe to sample Val D’Isere and 30 other famous resorts, and ending up with a week of spring skiing in Japan’s Habuba valley. An Epic ski pass indeed.
Thankfully my chiropractor brought me back to earth even before the family finance committee learned of my daydream, sagely pointing out that I practically lived in his office after just a regular day on the local slopes, so, the damage done by a ski bum holiday was sure to be epic, or worse. He, rather than I, was far more likely to enjoy a vacation as a result of my purchase of an Epic pass.
So, as I click the button to renew my boring, restricted, seniors 5 day pass I light a votive candle and mumble a prayer to the Ski Gods, asking for their indulgence next year. Let it be the year I guessed right, and ended up ahead of the game. of ski economics.
A very long time ago I was a fan of the comic strip Terry and the Pirates. It was a wonderful piece of escapism with a swashbuckling hero traveling through exotic lands and surviving incredible adventures. The lure of faraway places with strange sounding names triggered something in my adolescent brain, and a nascent bucket list was born. I too would someday trudge the markets of old Rangoon, hike the temples of mysterious Mandalay and stroll moonlit tropical beaches.
Bucket lists are funny things: ever-growing, they tend to morph over time, as tastes and circumstances and resources change. For myself, common sense has pretty well ruled out an ascent of the Matterhorn or a solo crossing of the Spearhead Traverse, and my financial advisor has strongly suggested that if I wish to eat at least a couple of meals a day in retirement I should abandon any idea of a submarine ride to the Titanic, or space tourism in general.
I confess to feeling a bit wistful as I stare down yet another birthday and the realization dawns that I may be running out of runway to make it to the bottom of a very long and ever-growing bucket list, but also chagrined, as I have just learned that my list has unexpectedly amended itself
Last week the venerable old mail ship the RMS St. Helena (one of only two Royal Mail ships remaining in the entire world), which has for decades been the only link to the isolated island of St. Helena in the South Atlantic, embarked upon its final voyage and I have never had the opportunity to walk its decks.
A voyage to the island has long been on my list, since it is reputedly stunning, is steeped in history, having been once Napoleon’s residence in exile, but moreover has had the cachet of inaccessibility. I once investigated the possibility of sailing there aboard a square rigger, but abandoned the idea after learning that it would have set me back over 50 grand and a year of my time, and I’d have to scramble up the rat lines to reef sails in all weather; so the mail ship was my only other option.
Alas the island has now installed an airport, destroying not only the mystique of sea-only access, but also the viability of the mail ship, which is being retired from service and sold.
Is an island now accessible to any tourist with a plane ticket worthy of a spot on the list? Thinning hair and creaking joints suggest a bit of bucket list triage is in order, so I am afraid St. Helena no longer makes the cut, which is a shame- it’s not the way one should remove items from the list. A big black “completed” check mark is hardly preferred.
Speaking of which is anyone out there up for a wee jaunt up Mount Kilimanjaro?