Near Fish River Canyon in Nambia – We crossed the border into Nambia yesterday. This is the Africa I’ve longed to see. Vast areas of sand and nothingness. No people. No trees. No mammals. No buildings. No telephone poles. Nothing but sand and the occasional bush. (One which our guide told us was dangerously acidic, and if we got it in our eye and we passed a breast feeding mother we would have to ask for her to squirt milk in our eye immediately as we’d go blind otherwise.) What I hadn’t expected to see was a large mountain range and arguably the second largest canyon in the world – Fish River Canyon. The Grand Canyon being the largest. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Before the telephone wires disappeared. Before the Tarmac road turned to dust. Before the nothingness, I had one last day of Westernised civilisation to stock up on in Cape Town. I should have had one last Flat White in a trendy artisan coffee shop. I should have treated myself to a groumet sushi platter. I should have caught up on all my wifi enabled correspondence. But no, I did none of that. As I thought about all these things I’d like to do one last time before two months of camping, I was eating my breakfast, starring up at Table Mountain. For two weeks I had been starring at its unwavering prescence over the Mother City. So strikingly beautiful. But I hadn’t yet made it to its summit. I had wanted to hike up it, for the exercise and because that would have been free, but I never managed to find someone to go with me. I had been to the top eight years ago, so couldn’t justify spending the 225 Rand for the return cable car. But as I sat there on my last day in Cape Town eating my breakfast, it’s flat peak lured me in. I couldn’t resist any longer. I had this overwhelming urge to spend the day sitting over its edge, observing the City Bowl and Camps Bay one last time. It was drawing me to its top to say goodbye. And that’s what I did. I gave up my last chance of Western comforts to take in the most spectacular views of Cape Town one can find. I don’t regret a second of my last hours spent in South Africa.
But back to Nambia. We arrived yesterday to a posh campsite on the Orange River, just 10km across the border from South Africa. Here the steady flowing river sprouted out lush greenery all along its banks. The tall reed grasses swayed in the gentle wind. Blue cranes stood tall in the rapids. Birds chirped. The mountain range with its pinkish hue provided a majastic backdrop. The campsite had hot showers, flushing toilets, a bar, and a swimming pool. (Our first night of camping in SA was at a vineyard, which also had a pool, and where we had a six course wine tasting with cheese and crackers.) When I told people I was on a 54 day camping trip, I’m sure they, along with me expected days without bathing, peeing behind bushes, tinned beans over a campfire, basic facilities.
Actually our set up is rather grand. We are over landing in a large 22 seater truck. Inside are comfy seats, each with a locker underneath and charging facilities for our Western electronics. Outside, underneath are designated compartments for everything. A space for two folding tables. Our refrigerator compartment for our chilled food. Storage for our cooking equipment. Another section for our spacious two man tents. And yet another for our folding chairs. And the back end all across houses our luggage. This is our home for the next two months. I had planned on using the next two months to loose the travelling pounds I’d put on, expecting the food to be simple. That’s not going to happen. Lunches so far have been sandwiches, but today’s was a BLT, with very yummy bacon. Breakfast was French Toast with peanut butter and syrup. Yesterday we had eggs and sausages. Dinners have been equally Devine with a beef stew over pasta last night and a chicken and vegetable stew over rice the day before. There are boxes of luxury biscuits to eat when we fancy and yesterday our Kenyan guide John bought us all magnum ice creams in the afternoon.
Before you loose all sympathy for me, I should let you know that it’s not all pool parties and braais. We are responsible for setting up and taking down our own tents. Whilst we do have a one inch mattress, it’s still not thick enough to keep me from waking up with sore hips and neck in the morning. We are in desert land and the temperature drops at night and I’m freezing by morning. I’m also on the Yolo tour. This is the tour for people nearly half my age. The first night two amorous individuals had already decided to copulate. The boy calling out, “I want tog have sex with you.” to the girl that clearly obliged. Their heavy breathing waking me up. I was again woken by another drunk companion who tried to crawl into bed with me after forgetting which tent was his. Lie ins aren’t possible either, with sirens blaring from 5.30am. Apparently a wake up call for all people in the area to ensure they get up for work. Not that that matters as we usually have 7am departures anyway. We prepare our own lunches. We wash our own dishes. We have to dry them too. The African way. Standing in the sun, waving the dishes about until they air dry. A rather comical site I’m sure for those who’ve passed by us after our roadside lunch failing our arms with a white plastic plate in one hand and our stainless steel mugs in the other.
Ah, but it’s all so worth it for the empty, breathtaking landscape! This morning we were rewarded with a two hour canoe trip down the Orange River. And this evening a sunset over Fish River Canyon. These 54 days are going to trump everything else I’ve seen before, I’m sure.
***Postnote. I came across this passage in the book I was reading yesterday. It struck a chord with me. In fact, I was surprised how it so succinctly told me what had been so wrong with my life back in London. How come I hadn’t understood then, which was so blatantly obvious? I’d spent 14 years in career that for the most part didn’t make me happy, particularly the last two to three years. Now I understand why! One of the great joys of my year out has been having the time, through long bus journeys and unhindered nights without engagements, to think, to read, to have in depth conversations with fellow travellers, to stop, to breath, to explore who I am, what makes me happy, and what I can do in the future to keep this feeling of peace, serenity, fulfilment and joy long after my trip ends. The time and space has enabled these answers to come more quickly and more sharply. The answer about my possible future career choices solidified as the possible right ones after reading the below.
“It is not how much money we make that ultimately makes us happy between nine and five. It’s whether our work fulfills us. (What’s) worth more to most of us than money, (is if) there is complexity, autonomy, and a relationship between effort and reward in doing creative work. Work that fulfills those three criteria is meaningful. Hard work is a prison sentence only if it does not have meaning. Once it does, it becomes the kind of thing that makes you grab your wife around the waist and dance a jig. From Outliers: The Story of Success by Malcolm Gladwell.
