Conversations with a Zulu warrior

Rejection is nothing new for me.  Everything from picked last in gym class as a kid to various romantic denials as an adult…but this may be the first time that a stranger has openly rejected me.

It was our final full day in South Africa and we were heading out of the Kruger area, back to Johannesburg for a painfully long flight home.  Having flown into Kruger, we were advised to do the drive out to see the amazing scenery along the route.

An attempt to save a few pennies we seemed to have opted for one of the more shady organizations operating within the park – so what should have been a 4-5 hour drive was spread over 7-8 hours.  We departed our lodge near Hoedspruit with Tex driving – did a stop at the stunning Blyde River Canyon – and then he dropped us off in the town of Dullstrom to wait for the second portion of the ride into the city.  And it was here that I met Thabo – my rejecter.

Thabo is a member of the Zulu tribe.  In my mind the word “zulu” is always followed by “warrior”, although when I met Thabo it was in the capacity of my driver.  His English was fantastic so we were able to pass the time chatting about the weather, the traffic – routine stuff.  With a rapport clearly established…I moved on to what I really wanted to know…what’s it like to be a Zulu Warrior?

Thabo explained that he had two homes.  One in Johannesburg – an apartment with his wife and child and his traditional home in South Eastern area of South Africa.  I asked if his traditional home was a hut.  “Of course.”  I asked if he had a spear and shield in his hut.  “Of course”.  I asked if he primarily ate bush meat that he hunted. “Of course”.  I asked if he wore animal skins when he was there.  “Of course.”  The look of fascination on my face greatly amused him.  He told me how the village had recently gotten a well and he was excited not to have to haul water for his mother when he returns ‘home’.  He even spent a bit of time trying to teach me Xhosa, his native clicking language before giving up in frustration at my ineptitude.  (Xhosa made French class look very easy)

I found the juxtaposition so odd and he found my disbelief entertaining.    “Sometimes you hunt African wildlife and cook it outside your hut without electricity and sometimes you play Angry Birds on your iPad.”  He just grinned and nodded.  

He told me, with great pride, that the current President of South Africa was born a Zulu.  He went on to discuss the President’s polygamist lifestyle but he thinks that 6-7 wives is too much, especially at the going rate of 11 cows per wife.  Thabo confessed that he has yet to pay off his current wife…he still owes her father 6 cows.  Five of those cows are from the initial cost of the wife and he was fined an additional cow because she ended up pregnant out of wedlock.  Apparently the father can add on a cow surcharge for a variety of reasons.

Thabo was surprised that I thought this whole process of polygamy was ridiculous.  He was telling me about nearby Swaziland and their playboy Monarch – the king selects a new wife every year.  There is an actual ceremony where pretty virgins dance topless for his attention.  And while it was an honour in Swaziland to join the Royal Family, there were practical points to polygamy as well.  He explained that the extra wives provided more children for the man…and they could help each other to build huts and gather food.  Reminder – the year this conversation took place was 2013.  Wives generally got along quite well, in fact, the first wife has a say in who the second wife it etc.

In his tribe, he stated 7 was the ‘ideal’ number of wives.  So naturally I asked if he ever intended to take a second wife.  Thabo said that he didn’t think so…but if he did…it certainly wouldn’t be anyone like me.  (To clarify, I was not offering).  He explained, again unsolicited, that I would be a bad wife.  I talked too much.  He saw that I was wearing shorts under by skirt.  He doesn’t think I would be willing to serve his mother food on my knees.   He can tell that I am too educated.  And my pale skin means I would cost many, many cows.

So there you have it…to all the people that ask me, “Why are you still single?”  I think Thabo, the part-time Zulu Warrior, summed it up…then he pulled out his Blackberry and sent a text.

** Thabo is also the only person I have ever met who has eating rhino meat.  A body of a freshly poached rhino was discovered not far from his village a few years ago – horn missing and body just left behind.    

Oh Roy, oh Roy...

Our safari vehicle was loaded with Barry and I, a very nice honeymooning couple from Austria, adventurous slightly older couple from Scotland who are my new travel inspiration and Roy. Every trip needs to have a "that"guy...the one you all talk about, bond over...the common denominator that brings foreigners together. Ours was Roy.

To clarify, Roy is not a bad person. I feel it essential to establish that before I start to type all this other bollocks about him. Roy claims to be a physician from Auckland, New Zealand. Is it a lie? Maybe...there are many out there who think I'm an architect from Vancouver. (At least I picked a country I'm from and a profession I have read about) Either way, there were a few red flags that alerted us to Roy's possible fib. 1) the obvious American accent. 2) he asked me if Bigfoot was real. (I don't believe all doctors are geniuses but I like to think that years of schooling has at least equipped them to know fairy tales and folklore from reality)

Roy flew directly into the Kruger area and immediately requested to be taken to a local mall (yeah, there are malls in the area). Here here bought himself the full safari get up. Khaki safari suits, boots - I think he even had the pith hat. Commonly he was mistaken for a guide - until he spoke. Roy wasn't...what you may call talented at identifying animals. The differences between the hippo and rhino still eluded him. Despite the significant investment to travel to South Africa from New "Zealand", and the full new safari wardrobe, Roy only brought an iPhone 3 for a camera. I'm not trying to sound like some sort of camera elitist but imagine being in a vehicle with a guy trying to shot the plains of Africa with a camera phone. You don't know what it sounds like...this...

Roy - "can we go closer, I can't get a good photo of the elephant"
Guide - "no Roy, that's an African Bull elephant. They don't like to be harassed by vehicles and flipped over cars that go to close."

Roy - "can we go closer, I can't get a good photo of the lion"
Guide - "no Roy, that's an African Lion. They don't like to be harassed by vehicles and can eat us"

Roy - "can we go closer, I can't get a good photo of the hippo"
Guide - "no Roy, that's a rhino."

Oh Roy, oh Roy

PS.  I wish I had a photo of Roy...I can't seem to find one...if I do I will amend this post.

PPS.  Roy finally confessed...he born and raised in Houston, Texas.

Pietie Boy - born free (posting from the road)

Disclaimer....I have no idea if this story is true. I have no reason not to believe it and I think more then that...I want to believe it.

In a small Harbour south of Cape Town, 35+ years ago there was a small oil spill. Small in the sense that, while still catastrophic to those effected, it wasn't the Exxon Valdez or BP Deep Horizon. The local fisherman and sailors worked feverishly to clean the area and in particular the sea birds now drenched in crude oil.

Most locals were too scared to attempt to clean off the small Cape Fur Seal colony that was effected - the seals are massive, skittish and I definitely saw teeth. But one fisherman, Piete (pronounced Pete), decided to take a chance. One by one, he cleaned the oil off and the seals, thankful for a chance for survival, were surprisingly compliant. One seal in particular was extremely thankful...an appreciation he shows to this day.

South Africa at the time this all occurred was not an ideal place for a young black man. Piete struggled working a difficult job for little money. He resided (and still does) in a small township (commonly referred to as a slum or shanty town in Western slang) near the harbour, working long hours to survive. Then a seal gave him a better life.

Piete befriended this young seal and treated him as if he were his own - naming him Pietie Boy. Pietie Boy returned time and time again to visit his friend, hopping out of the water and waddling ashore for a little pet down and a fishy treat. Discovering an untapped market, Piete and Pietie Boy became a local attraction. Tourists stop by while visiting this scenic coast and, for the price of a dollar, feed him a fish. The money supports Peite, who no longer works as a fisherman, and buys treats from local fisherman for Pietie Boy. After a few hours Pietie Boy returns to the water and his seal family. This has been happening for 37 years.

When I enquired about whether Pietie Boy came everyday, the answer seemed very...South African. "No, he comes when he wants. He is a wild seal and lives in the ocean. He was born free and never had a government who told him where he could or could not go. He comes to us because he makes the choice to visit." And I, who never thought I would get a chance to meet a huge Cape Fur Seal, am very glad he does...

Jaws meets my fist (posting from the road)

There is one special week of the year that excites the vast majority of us...not the first week of summer or the week before Christmas...I am referring to the epic television viewing phenomenon of shark week.


Since the release of Jaws, and the subsequent 27+ sequels, no creature on the planet has struck fear in the minds of swimmers, boaters and fisherman than the Great White Shark. And rightfully so.

You know when you read about something...and it sounds like a good idea...but then when you are actually clinging to the side of a boat praying for death you realize that the brochure may have glossed over some of the details...that was today.

We left Cape Town at 0400 for a 2 hour drive to the port town of Gansbaii in the hopes of seeing a Great White Shark in person. The past two mornings the tours had been canceled for rough seas but the skipper felt that today would be "okay". It was not. Shortly after departing shore I realized that the plethora of anti-nausea meds were going to be no match against the 3.5 m swells that we would be anchored broadside in.

It took me close to 20 min to get my damp wet suit on between the overwhelming nausea, caffeine deficiency and numb fingers (it was freezing that morning). The next step was...well it didn't really matter to me as I was clinging to the port side of the boat chumming with regurgitated Rice Krispies. I would take brief breaks to stumble over to the other side of the boat where Barry was in the water and watch giant sharks assault the cage.

And then it was my turn...mustering up courage and with the skippers assurances that I would feel better in the water I plunged into the icy Atlantic surrounded by the "cage".

I'm going to digress here to describe the "cage" as I feel it's quality is relevant to my tale. When I hear the word CAGE I envision a sturdy enclosure powerful enough to keep its content safely contained (or in the case things out). Metals I feel should be used in cage building include steel, iron or even better titanium. None if those were the metals used...my guess is it would be the same metal that paper clips are constructed with. Seriously I have kept budgies in a cage with more structure. I can only assume the the onslaught of ineffective anti-nausea meds lowered my common sense threshold and that is why I agreed to get into the water with sharks relying on a paper clip to keep me safe.

In the water I went instantly numb. My feet that were supposed to rest on a lower bar kept losing their ability to grip and slipping out the needlessly large holes to dangle in the murky water like an appetizer. The visibility was very poor that day and every time the skipper yelled "down" - I would pop my head under the water, see nothing but feel the cage shake. I could barley see my own feet just on the rail below.

After the familiar "down" was called out...and I popped me head under and attempted to find the hole in which to peer out of...instead I found something peering in...or rather swiftly ramming his head through the, I'll say it again - needlessly large hole. Complete fear is all I felt at that moment. And then...my right hand, which was holding a camera off to the side, was jarred backwards as the snout of the great white shark smashed into it.

I wish I could conclude this story by saying that I remained calm and poised during this situation...but Barry is with me and I doubt that version would hold up. I vaguely remember screaming something like "oh my god, he touched me! The shark touched me! I'm done. Get me out!" - several times...very loudly.

Not sure if it was a language barrier or the sadistic nature of the skipper, but I remained in the joke of a cage - frozen like an ice cube - choking on my own vomit - cowering as the cage continued to shake and rattle violently between the bashing of the massive waves and the intermittent assault of this terrifying predator for at least 15 more minutes.

I didn't do much better once I was permitted back on the boat - either shivering away on the deck or vomiting over the side. It got so bad at one point that I considered jumping back into the water, no cage, and hoping the circling sharks would end it all.

But now...I'm back on land...dry...motionless...safe...and have a totally different perspective. I'm excited to be one of the few people to ever touch a great white and live to write about it. Was it terrifying? Yes. Was it awesome? Yes. Would I do it again? Hell yes!