Lessons Learned the Hard Way: No. 74

“I want my mamba!”

When camping in the desert, kindly resist the temptation to visit the local snake and reptile farm. I had spent a fascinating afternoon in Namibia’s Swakopmund Snake Park watching black mambas, green mambas, Egyptian cobras and puff adders through thick glass. I had studied photographs of the devastating effect their toxic venom had on various victims’ arms and legs, and been captivated by lurid accounts of past attacks.

I then spent several extremely sleepless nights in my tent in the wilderness, listening to every tent-zip, rustle and breeze, too terrified to even visit the toilet.

 

Photo and post by: Simon Vaughan

Fear Is The Key

The Island of Unmentionable Horrors - Suriname

Many years ago I read a fascinating book on cryptozoology, the study of species that may or may not exist. Things like Bigfoot, Yeti, the Loch Ness Monster and helpful tax collectors. I tend to keep an open mind on such matters, whether through wishful thinking or because I used too many toxic felt-tip pens as a child, I’m not sure. However, for all my optimism, there is one thing that I don’t think will ever be found – a man-eating frog.

 

Everyone has their own fears. I’ve known people who will happily pay top dollar to devour gelatinous raw fish in fancy restaurants, yet run a mile from a bowl of jiggling Jello. Others who faint at the thought of a paper cut yet spend their Saturday evenings glued to the most graphic slasher movie ever.

 

Different things evidently bother different people.

 

I once met a woman who seemed to be utterly fearless. We had spent several days together in the jungle and nothing perturbed her in the slightest. We’d seen scorpions and giant cockroaches and she never batted an eyelid. On our first evening we were advised to ensure that our mosquito nets weren’t pressed against our skin at night, lest vampire bats snuggle up and suck our blood. Still not so much as an eye twitch. When one morning we found the dog fast asleep surrounded by two bloated vampire bats so gorged on its blood that they were struggling to crawl away never mind fly, she gazed on with rapt fascination.

 

So imagine our panic when her blood-curdling screams filled the camp just after dawn. We volted from our sleep and ran towards the deafening sound. Had she been bitten by a snake? Cornered by a jaguar?  Was there a piranha in her water bottle? We found her standing in a clearing in front of the showers. She was holding her face in her hands, crying and shaking. She stammered unintelligibly and gestured frantically.

 

We grabbed long sticks and like the unruly mob of village-goers in Frankenstein, advanced towards the shower. We swung open the door and jumped back…and there was the cause of the commotion: on the floor of the shower, sitting by the drain in all its evilness, riled-up and ready to pounce.

 

It glared at us with cold, malefic eyes.

 

A frog.

 

Granted it was the biggest frog I’d ever seen, but it was still only a frog. Actually, a nice pretty green one.

 

“I really hate frogs”, sobbed our fellow traveller, unnecessarily.

 

 

Photo and post by: Simon Vaughan

Travel Words of Wisdom: No. 4

Annual caterpillar migration  

“There is no end to the adventures that we can have if only we seek them with our eyes open. “

 

- Jawaharlal Nehru

A Gift From The Gods

Namibia: The dog days of summer

Sometimes, the best and most cherished souvenir from any trip is that given reluctantly by a casual acquaintance. 

 

The campsite was idyllically situated beside the Zambezi near Namibia’s Caprivi Strip. It was an oasis of green lawns, with a bar and toilet block constructed of bamboo walls and thatched roofs so as not to detract from the natural beauty of the spot. Large blossoming trees afforded shade, flower beds provided colour and a stone pathway wound its way lazily throughout. The place was enlivened by several small dogs which raced around playing with each other and anyone kind enough to offer a good belly rub. In short, it was bliss.

 

The owners welcomed us to their slice of Nirvana and invited us to pitch our tents wherever we liked. They offered hot water in the showers, cold beer in the bar and table tennis and pool tables overlooking the river. Before leaving us to settle in, they offered one stern warning.

 

“Beware of snakes” they said, solemnly. “We’ve had a bit of a problem, so when you walk around, particularly after dark, use your torch and stamp your feet. Snakes don’t look for trouble, but if you stumble upon one and surprise it, you’ll likely come off the worse.”

 

“What types of snakes?” someone asked needlessly, as if it makes a difference which venom kills you.

 

“Black mambas and spitting cobras” he answered, nonchalantly, before giving us a happy wave and strolling away.

 

We looked at each other nervously before laying stake to a plot of grass. The campsite was soon ringing with the sound of mallet on metal tent peg and before long a small village of rag-tag travellers had found a new home. Each of us carefully inspected the ground before pitching the tent, anxiously scanning it for snake holes. My spot was pristine and with the job done, I headed for a refreshing shower.

 

The evening passed uneventfully except for the increasing glow of a raging bush fire in the Angolan distance. We stomped off to the toilets and our tents, wielding our flashlights like light sabres. The next morning we awoke to another beautiful dawn filled with the song of birds and the yap of the campsite dogs eagerly seeking playmates.

 

After breakfast I returned to the tent to pack it up. I withdrew the pegs, poles and flysheet. Then, with a long stick, I raised a corner of the ground sheet to ensure there were no dozy snakes still slumbering away. With the coast clear, and the tent stuffed back in its sack, I noticed a small object on the flattened grass. I edged forward cautiously before picking it up for closer inspection.

 

It was a very small, crudely carved, wooden rhinoceros. Well worn, and bearing none of the craftsmanship or polish of most of the carvings found in markets, its naivety and honest character instantly appealed to me. But where had it come from?

 

I had scrutinised the area before pitching the tent, and had pegged it so closely to the ground that not even a breeze could have blown in. Strange things happen in Africa. Perhaps this was an ancient spiritual totem that had simply materialised in my presence. Never one willing to offend the Gods, I reverently placed it in my pocket and adopted it as a very special good luck token.

 

As we drove away, the campsite owners waved good-bye and the small dogs ran after us, yapping and jumping as if losing a playmate.

 

Later, I recovered the little icon from my pocket and examined it more closely. It was scratched and worn and bore little indentations, almost like…like…bite marks from small dogs who used it…as their favourite toy…

 

I have been wracked with merciless guilt ever since.

 

Photo and post by: Simon Vaughan

 

Lessons Learned the Hard Way: No. 97

Before retrieving foreign currency leftover from previous trips, kindly ensure that all is in order.

 

During a brief early morning stopover in Auckland after the very long all-night flight across the Pacific, I headed straight for the Cafe Espresso. I carefully surveyed their appetising display of pies, wraps, sandwiches, pastries and fruit. From my pocket, I removed the small zip lock bag containing all the New Zealand change I had left over from my previous visit a year earlier. I carefully counted it, all the while the tantalising aromas of fresh bread and warm food tickling at my nose and causing it to twitch with excitement. I selected a delicious looking provolone and plum tomato toasted panino and a bottle of fresh orange juice, my hands shaking in eager anticipation of the mini-feast to come. I reached the cash register and presented my selection. The total popped up and I earnestly counted out the exact amount from my brimming hand-full of coins. My arithmetic had been spot on and I was left with just 20 cents. As the attendant gathered my payment, my mouth watered and I could almost taste my banquet.

 

“Is this all you’ve got?” she asked, pointing at my money.

 

I answered in the affirmative, my stomach gurgling and a panic setting in. Had I miscalculated? Had I counted incorrectly?

 

“Sorry love, these coins were pulled from circulation last year. They’re no longer legal tender.”

 

Utterly gutted, I re-pocketed my useless coins, bid a sad and tender farewell to my orange juice, caressed the sandwich that had so nearly been mine, and headed to my gate for the onward connecting flight to Australia.

 

Post by: Simon Vaughan

Snail Butter

Luxor, Egypt: ‘And a side order of feathers?’

 

It was nestled quietly on the menu between Cassoulet of Goosnargh duck and Corn fed chicken ‘Bois Boudran’: “Rib eye steak with snail butter”. To most, it went un-noticed, but not me. Although no expert, I do know that butter comes from milk. Milk comes from cows. And goats, and yaks…but snails? I pictured a dairy farmer in some backwoods snail farm, gently and earnestly milking his purebred livestock between deft little fingers. Although an interesting thought, it was not a pleasant one and I opted for bangers and mash instead.

 

There are things I have eaten while travelling that I wouldn’t touch with rubber gloves at home. And not just items that should usually be white, but were served to me in a mysterious green and furry state. I consider exotic cuisine to be a very important part of travel and the more exotic, the better…within reason.

 

In the back streets of Luxor, Egypt, I found pigeon. The little carcass was presented on a bed of couscous like a miniature roast chicken. Sadly, I could barely see the meat for the bones and although it tasted fine, it really wasn’t worth the considerable effort expended. The consolation was that I was at least able to derive evil pleasure from devouring something that had pooped on me once too often!

 

In Australia, I just had to grace my palate with witchetty grubs, the infamous and oh-so mouthwatering fat, wriggling, moth larvae.  Ours were so fresh that we found them while foraging beneath a log, as you do when you’re hungry! The African equivalent is the mopane worm which, when prepared by a master chef, still tastes like dry, gummy, over-cooked bland walnuts.  In Asia, there are crickets and grasshoppers which are especially great if you’re a leg man.

 

Although not particularly appetising, these are all great sources of protein and an important part of local diets. In fact, very little goes to waste in developing countries and I always feel ashamed of our own spoiled and wasteful existence in the first world. Whenever travelling, I try to never leave anything on my plate when I consider that the person serving me probably eats less protein in a week than I have in a single sitting.

 

I was once served two pork chops devoid of all meat. Not wishing to seem ungrateful, I struggled with my blunt knife, valiantly trying to obtain every single last morsel of fat and gristle. Each tiny piece was then diligently chewed 5000 times before being washed down with a mouthful of orange Fanta. My jaws ached by the time I finished. I reclined exhausted and far from replete as the waiter came to collect my plate.

 

“Was it good?” he asked, gesturing to the well-gnawed and impressively bare bones.

 

“Excellent” I lied, with as best a smile as I could manage with numb facial muscles.

 

He looked at me with surprise.

 

“Oh,” he said, “It looked a bit too gristly and fatty to me.” And away he walked with a shrug. 

 

Photo and post by: Simon Vaughan

Question of the Week

When is a zebra crossing not a zebra crossing?

Photo and post by: Simon Vaughan