Five-headed Birds and the Great Brazilian Baby Boom of 2011

July 17, 2010.

The cold weather hasn’t lifted.  It has been getting a little colder every day.  The original forecast was for the warm air to move back in tomorrow, but that has been postponed for another week!!!!   Usually these cold weather fronts last two or three days.  This has already gone on for 5 days and the last time they had a winter as cold as this was 35 years ago.  All the houses are set up for the heat with open verandas designed to catch the cool night breezes.  We are all now sitting on the verandas wearing 5 layers of clothes praying for warmth.  There is no heating in the house at all.  Not even little space heaters.  The only warm place is in bed.  This cold air is covering all of Brazil including Rio and all the beaches.  I predict a major baby boom in Brazil in April 2011.

Campo Grande airport has closed and no flights have landed there in the last two days.  There are reports that livestock in Matto Grosso do Sol is starting to be effected by the weather and that 700 cattle have perished from the cold.

Some weather experts are blaming the prolonged cold spell on la Nina ocean warming patterns.  For 10 years the Pantanal had been receiving less and less rain and the annual flood levels had been decreasing.  Last year there was record flooding.  There is a photo from the last flood season in the dining room of the lodge showing Ivone (the owner) sitting outside the front door of the house, knee deep in water with piranhas swimming around her feet.

Still, the guests had traveled a long way and spent a lot of money to get to the Pantanal so we soldier on with the usual round of activities.  I went on the boat trip upriver this evening and we came across what at first looked like a very strange, wide and long blackbird perched on a branch.  On closer inspection it appeared to have 5 heads and 10 feet.  The poor birds were lined up, crammed together, feathers fluffed, huddling along the branch to share body warmth.  Five headed birds - another symptom of climate change!!!!

I tried the cachasa method of warming up once we got back to the house and took a shot of the local rum. It had the strange effect of only heating the top of my head.  From the cheekbones up I was very toasty warm indeed, feeling red and almost like I was radiating heat from my temples.  The rest of me was still chilly though.

July 19, 2010.

I woke up to another cold morning.  The cold had lasted a week.  The air was so wet and frigid that it got into your bones.  The morning greeting had become a teeth chattering “Bom Dia” and then a good humored competition to see how many layers of clothes each person was wearing.  The record was eight layers of T-shirts, cardigans and sweaters covered over with light jackets (no-one has winter coats here).  Things were getting dire.  There is no clothes dryer at the farm because 360 days out of the year it is hot here and laundry dries on the line.  Any attempt at hanging laundry over the past week only resulted in it getting wetter.  So by this morning we were all chilled to the bone and perhaps a little stinky.

Emerging from my cabin near the pond early, I saw the first blue sky.  The actual tail end of the front was visible in a distinct line as the low clouds suddenly gave way to pale blue morning sky.  I sat warming my hands around my coffee cup and watched the blue slowly progress across the sky to where the sun was hiding.  Campo Grande airport had been closed for three days due to fog, so we only had three guests - an avid birdwatcher from England and a honeymooning Italian couple who had spent the first week of their married life shivering on the empty beaches of Rio.  We all sat there, waiting and watching the dividing line in the sky.

At last the blue sky reached the sun and it poured out from behind the clouds for the first time in a week.  I joined the guests as we all ran outside, blinking and dancing and in fits of madness opening our jackets to expose our seven layers of mismatched t-shirts to the rays of the sun.  The cowboys swaggered out to join us and the kitchen staff not far behind them as we all indulged ourselves in a merry sun dance.  The water of the pond splashed as the caimen dragged themselves out of their hiding places in the mud to warm their scales in the sunlight.  The birds emerged with a screech and a squawk in a sudden cacophony of birdsong and a flock of rosetta spoonbills swooped overhead defrosting their wings.  Man and beast lifted their faces to the sun, and in an instant, all was forgiven.

Becoming a Pantaneira

July 13, 2010.

This morning I braved the horses.  I’m not terribly fond of horses, but since this is technically a cattle farm with cowboys (known as pantaneiros in the Pantanal), it seemed the thing to do.

Thankfully they provided me with a nice, plodding horse that never even attempted to break into a trot.  For two hours we meandered through the landscape, switching from forest to savanah and back again.  The rain yesterday had heralded a cold front and it was very chilly indeed.  The mosquitoes and miscellaneous flying insects completely disappeared overnight.  The animals and birds were mostly huddled away from the cold and the ranch was silent but for the clopping of the horses hooves and the squeaking of the leather saddle as we sailed through the Pantanal on our humble steads.   There is a flowering plant that blooms in the dry season called acapeixe that the locals refer to as the scent of the Pantanal.  It is a sweet savory smell, something like a mixture of gardinia and thyme.

Inspired the horse riding in the morning, I took a ride into Miranda again with the shopping expedition.  Miranda is truly a cow-poke town.  It’s only reason for existing is to service the cattle farms nearby.  A new guide had arrived a couple of days ago and she is married to a cowboy in Campo Grande, so we sought out the local cowboy supply shop.  It had everything from boots and hats and chaps to snake bite anti-venom, machetes and spare parts for saddles.  I bought myself a pair of Brazilian cowboy boots and instantly developed the cowboy swagger.  It’s all in the boot!!!  It has a strange, rocking inset in the sole and the heel tends to come up at the back, so it more or less forces you to walk in a slow, deliberate way in order to keep them on your feet.  The rolling, slow, swaying gait of the pantaneros now makes sense.  I added a pair of Brazilian jeans, and now I’m feeling like a local.  Even the cowboys on the farm are now calling me “pantaneira”.

Too bad I don’t look like a local.  This is a very swarthy town.  And I’m rather blonde.  I was told that people around here don’t look like me, but I didn’t expect them to come out of shops to stare.  It’s a good thing I’m oblivious to such attention and it took someone else to point it out to me.  Oh well, now I have the proper cowboy swagger, the staring and pointing will surely stop.  Maybe I should keep a keen ear out for the mocking laughter to commence.

Maybe if I started drinking maté, that would help.  Maté is a form of tea that is very popular in South America.  In this part of Brazil, maté is drunk cold from a cows horn that has been flattened at one end to make a cup.  Really and truly, they sell these cow horns en-mass at the local supermarket.  Some are real horn, the cheaper ones are plastic.  In Southern Brazil it is drunk hot out of a gourd. 

July 16, 2010.

The cold snap continues.  It’s all over Brazil and while these cold fronts usually only last two or three days, this one is hanging around longer and colder than usual.  Because this part of the world is warm or hot 95% of the time, it’s not prepared for the cold weather.  The house is geared for heat.  The dining room only has a fly screen that can be covered by plastic shutters to keep out the rain.  All the rooms have air conditioning but no heating.  The guests didn’t come prepared for the cold, so there is a lot of shivering going on and praying for the cold front to move on.

The animals and birds are also hiding away trying to keep warm.  I feel bad for a European family that flew in just as the rain started and have been shivering and seeing no animals since they got here.  The cold front is predicted to move on the day they leave.  It must be an expensive proposition to fly the whole family out to Brazil, but there is no predicting this weather.  A week ago we were swimming and sweating and slapping on the SFP50 sunscreen.

So there isn’t a whole lot going on at the farm at the moment except eating, huddling around the tea pot and taking the occasional shot of cachaca to keep warm.  It’s probably a good point to talk about the food here at the farm.

There is always cake.  There is a Brazilian tradition of making and serving homemade cakes that seems to  have died out in the rest of the world.  There are usually two fresh baked caked in the breakfast buffet, cake for afternoon tea and picnics, basically cake any time of day or night.  The desserts are also rather amazing.  They make a rich dolce de leite which is almost the consistency of toffee and it is served with either glaze/sugared pumpkin or the local mild farmer’s cheese.  Since it’s been cold, dessert has been a hot bowl of hominy boiled in milk and spiced with cinnamon and lemon.  A bit like rice pudding but with hominy instead of rice.

Lunch is served outside, in a covered cabana overlooking the river.  They light a fire in the barbeque and put the pots on top to keep them warm.  Lunch is the big meaty meal of the day.  Huge chunks for “carne de sol”, pots of beef and manioc stew,  rice and beans, baked pumpkin - always something different and hearty (with salads for the healthy types amongst us).

Dinner is served on the screened-in veranda overlooking the pond full of birds and caimen.  There is always soup - lentil, chicken, pirhana.  Last night they brought out a huge fish (maybe 2 feet long) from the Paraguay River.  The night before it was a rich chicken stew - rather like the insides of a chicken pot pie.

Everything is fresh and local.  The eggs are from a local family down the road.  The vegetables come from a co-operative in Miranda.  I’m going to have to try very hard not to get fat while I’m here.  I want to try everything.  So far my sense of propriety has stopped me from sampling the cake for breakfast, but I’m not sure how long my resolve (or my slender figure) will last.

First Greetings from the Pantanal

Pantanal journal

July 1, 2010

I nearly tripped over a capybara walking back to my cabin by the pond last night.  Note:  a capybara is a small, furry mammal and is not to be confused with a caipirinha - the national drink of Brazil made with the local rum and mint leaves.  However, I’m sure a story involving tripping and caipirinhas isn’t too far in the future.  I will try and avoid getting involved in situations that involve tripping, caipirinhas and crocodiles although it does seem possible since I arrived in the Pantanal.

The fazenda is beautiful, rustic and peaceful.  The community consists of Jiro and Ivone (the owners), several native guides, kitchen and household staff.  My task is to teach everyone English, help host the English speaking guests and develop eco-tourism projects.  In return I am given a cabin across the pond from the guesthouse, three meals a day, and an amazing opportunity to be adopted into this little community in Western Brazil.

The first order of business is to find a way to communicate.  The folks here really want to learn English and really want to communicate with the strange blonde woman who just turned up on their doorstep.  They are all very hospitable, smart and eager.  It doesn’t hurt that since I already yearn to understand this community and this place, it’s a huge incentive for me to learn Portuguese in a hurry.  I’ve never wanted to learn a language so desperately.

The language learning process is not hindered by the Brazilian coffee.  This was one of the first big coffee growing countries in the world and they know what they are doing.  The coffee is almost the consistency and richness of hot chocolate and without a hint of bitterness.  It’s delicious and I’m already addicted (well, more than usual).

Yes, there are mosquitoes here.  While I was bitten quite a bit last night as we drove to watch and listen to the parrots nesting, strangely I am not bumpy of itchy today.  Since there is no malaria in this region and the mosquitoes don’t cause itchy bumps, then I guess I’ll stop worrying about them.

I’m told I shouldn’t worry about the caiman either (locally called jacare).  Caiman are small crocodiles and, even though I throw like a girl, I could probably stand casually at my back fence, throw rocks and hit five of them.

July 3, 2010.

Yesterday the guests took canoes down the river late in the afternoon as the sun was easing.  The farm sits on an island that is formed by one of many rivers that meander around the Pantanal.  It is dry season at the moment and the river is narrow and hemmed in by trees, vines, water lilies and endless vegetation.  The waterway twists and turns around hairpin bends and each turn reveals new multitudes of birds, fish visible in the clear water and caiman sunning themselves on the banks.

After an hour or so, the guests have to be found and towed back to the house upstream.  I went with Jose (a native guide) in the boat with an outboard motor to find them.  The sun was low, Jose was racing through the hairpin turns all the while pointing at wildlife and trying to explain it to me in Portuguese.  I thought clinging to the sides of the boat and begging him to slow down wouldn’t be a good look for an intrepid volunteer, so I steeled myself to stay calm.  I’m sure Jose knew what he was doing.

With the sunset comes the mosquitoes and every tiny flying creature known to mankind (and in this area of the world, probably some insects not yet known to mankind).  Racing full speed down the river I tried not to swallow too many bugs, but realized that I was soon going to look like a windscreen on a car and be combing undiscovered insect species out of my hair.

We quickly found the guests in their canoes happily splashing paddles into the water with the caiman and piranhas.  We hitched them to the back of the boat and towed them slightly less fast back to the house as the sun was setting.  Jose got out the spotlight and searched the banks for anything that moved.

Then back to the house for dinner.  The dining room is a screened in veranda at the back of the house overlooking one of the ponds.  It’s very peaceful to sit there, watch the birds in the trees, contemplate life over a cup of Brazilian coffee.

The food at here is amazing.  Even if there are very few guest, they always put on a big spread of salads, soup,  local meats and stews, manioc fries and such.  Everything is homemade from the breads and jams, cakes and pastries in the morning, to the rich, thick dulce de leche that comes with dessert.  We are on the edge of the cattle farming area and I’ve yet to find out exactly what they mean by “carne de sol” or “meat of the sun”.  Whatever it is, I’m hooked.  It might be tough not to gain weight while I’m here.

There were a couple of children amongst the guests last night, so the guide suggested spotlighting the pond for caiman.  The pond is literally on the back doorstep with a little wooden deck to sit and fish.  The whole group of us wandered down to the pond with the lantern and instantly caught sight of 3 caiman within 10 feet of us.  The guide starting tapping a stick on the banks of the pond and within 5 minutes 8 caiman were dragging themselves up on the bank to see what the fuss was about.  The longest was probably 2 meters, but there were some half that size in the bunch.  Because the waters have receded and all the wildlife is packed into the small remaining ponds, the caiman barely have to roll over to catch a fish.  They are all fat and slow and showed no interest in us even when we were four feet away and the kids were poking them with sticks.

July 8, 2010.

It seems I am being taught Brazilian Portuguese with a Matto Grosso do Sol accent.  I’ve been noticing that what I’m hearing in general speech around here is sometimes very different to what is in my reference books and my learn Brazilian computer program.   I’m going to leave here sounding like a country hick!!!

We have guests from all around Brazil coming to stay with us at the farm.  They all pronounce things differently.  Since I’m pretty basic on my Portuguese so far, I only notice obvious things like how they say their numbers.  One wrong vowel sound or rolled “r” and you go from “reading” to “being crippled”.  Some of the sounds are so different to English that I’m having trouble getting my mouth around it, but I’m also finding that trying to get locals to pronounce English words is very difficult for them.  But I’m learning fast because I have to in order to be understood.  Sometimes one of the guests will speak some English and will translate for me.  Other times I have to find the Portuguese word or phrase, so sit in silence.

I’m rapidly learning how to get by in a swamp.  We had a German guide here for a couple of days with a tour group and he turned up in camouflage clothes, scarf around the neck, knife in his belt, big boots with his trousers tucked into his socks. He looked a bit like one of those, strong, well equipped Germans who are always villains in action films and invariably are beaten by the scrappy American who is armed only with a shoelace and a safety pin.  I thought his get up was a bit over the top but soon realized that this guy really knew what he was doing.   Besides, he was so distraught when Germany got beaten out of the World Cup semi-finals, that I ended up liking the guy.

Anyway, I’ve been here a week and it is looking more and more likely that my luggage is never going to get here.  The big bag with all my clothes in it didn’t make it to Sao Paulo and hasn’t been heard of since.  Even though I’m three hours drive from the nearest airport, the airlines will actually deliver the bags to the farm.  I guess it’s cheaper than paying the insurance value.

So here I am in the swamp with a few clothes that ended up in my hand luggage when I came through New York.  It’s amazing how little mosquito protection New York summer dresses provide to the Brazilian swamp-dweller.  My lovely light weight city pants are no match for the mosquitoes here.  Nooooo, they bite right through the flimsy material.  My sturdy hiking boots are in my lost bag, and my “breathing, quick dry, mesh” gym shoes that I was wearing on the plane are also not thick enough to deter the little buggers.  I got up early this morning to watch the sun rise over the pond and it became a very aerobic and sometimes bloody swatting event while trying to enjoy the parrots singing in the trees above.

But I am learning and will slowly restocking my wardrobe with more suitable clothes when I get into town.  In the meantime, my mantra is “don’t scratch, don’t scratch, don’t scratch”.

July 8, 2010.

I tagged along on an excursion into the Pantanal last night looking for jaguars.  We were spotlight off the back of the pickup truck.  The local guide has been trying to educate me.  He speaks about as much English as I speak Portuguese, but somehow we manage to make ourselves understood.  Jose could tell what animal had been caught in the spotlight just be the color of the reflection in their eyes.  The crab eating fox eyes appear green in the spotlight.  The owl’s eyes appear red.

I also found out the process for making “carne do sol” when I went to take my washing off the clothesline yesterday.  Huge chunks of beef were covered with salt and drying in the sun next to my clothes.  Now I’m not sure whether they are saying “carne do sol” (mean of the sun) or “carne do sal” (salted meat).  All the vowels in Portuguese make a huge difference to the meaning of words.   I’m probably sounding like the English equivalent Manuel from Fawlty Towers at this point.

My list of things that go bump in the night is growing my the minute - crocodiles, piranhas, leeches, vampire bats, jaguars, anacondas are all on the farm.  But don’t worry.  I have a refrigerator outside my apartment by the swamp.  So my chocolate stash is safe from predators.  As for my own safety, well, the locals don’t seem too perturbed by the wildlife, so why should I.  After all, I grew up in Australia where everything that creeps or crawls or swims could kill you and no-one there worries about it.

I woke up this morning and half asleep wondered how strange it was that someone was playing video games outside my window.  I’m across the pond from the main farm house and the nearest building is100 meters away.  It sounded like video game lasers firing and fake engines roaring.  It took me a few seconds to realize it was the early morning bird calls the likes of which I would never imagine could come from our feathered friends.

A rogue capybara has taken up residence on my doorstep.  The rest of the group that hangs around the pond stick together in a family group.  It’s a big fellow and probably an unwanted male.  Very placid.  About the size of a small pig, but furry and slow moving.  It’s actually part of the rodent family, so really an enormous rat, but much more cuddly.  I think I’ll have to give him a name.  Maybe Hairy George.

July 11, 2010.

The son of the owner has been at the farm for the last few days giving guided tours to a group of English speaking guests.  So I’m suddenly learning a lot about birds and wildlife without having to half-guess.  He took us on a 3 hour boat trip downriver.  I wonder if there is such a thing as “wildlife induced Attention Deficit Disorder”.  There were creatures everywhere!  No sooner had we spotted a gloriously colored kingfisher, than a huge heron would swoop into the water right in front of us.  Just as we were oohing and ahhing over the heron, we’d notice three caiman gaping on the banks and sliding into the water followed rapidly by a stork cruising overhead.  I think I experienced wildlife whiplash and wore out my pointing finger!

The river is low, so in some parts the water plants almost touch across the water.  The forest and vines encroach on both sides and sometimes give way to large expanses of water grasses that have taken root where lagoons have dried up for the season.

We spotted a huge troop of capuchin monkeys near the house yesterday and another large group swinging through the trees upriver.  When two troops meet there is usually a great big monkey fight that sounds like 100 cats fighting in an alley.  We will probably be able to hear it from the house.

I’m starting to help with the guiding and today one of the guides and I took a guest on a bird walk along the levees.  There had been talk of a stork nest off one of the tracks, so we followed the guide through the dense fern and palm forest as he hacked a path with a machete.  I couldn’t help get a kick out of it.  I felt like I had landed in a “Lost World” movie.  It didn’t hurt that we found an anaconda skeleton along the path.

There really is wildlife everywhere here.  Lunch is served at the bend in the river in front of the house that is used by the guests for swimming.  Yesterday a very curious giant otter kept popping his head out of the water watching us have lunch.

I helped with the spotlight on the night safari yesterday.  We didn’t see much, but we saw plenty stop-light red eyes from caiman.  Coming back to the house, I threw the spotlight on the pond near the house and it lit up like a Christmas tree.  This is why I’ve given up alcohol for the duration of my stay here.  I have to walk around the pond to get to my cabin.  Although it would be a fine family tale to tell about how great aunt Diana died when she drank too many capirinhas, took a wrong turn in the middle of the night and fell into a crocodile and piranha infested swamp in Brazil.  Since no-one would believe it, I might as well save myself for a while longer.

July 11, 2010 - written just before dinner

I just got back from a boat trip downriver with Leo and 4 tourists from Paris.  It was one of those magic trips where all the strange, rare events come together.  We were less than a mile downstream when we came across an anaconda sunning on some fallen vegetation on the river bank.  Seeing anacondas around here is fairly rare, but this one was huge - probably 6 meters long and the width of my thigh.  One of the Parisian women jumped up and started pacing nervously around the boat as if risking tipping over the boat was somehow going to help if the snake suddenly thought she looked tasty for dinner.  I guess some people are just weird around snakes.   The anaconda showed no interest in us, didn’t move for the 10 minutes we gawping at it and taking photos and wouldn’t go for prey as large as us anyway.  It was a truly magnificent snake.

We had not gone another mile when we spotted a band of capuchin monkeys crossing the river by jumping between trees that almost touched at a narrow part of the river.  They were fearless little fellows.  However, we did hear the big monkey fight at a distance around lunchtime today, so maybe these monkey folks were fleeing.

The further you get down river, the larger the trees.  Soon the boat ride was taking on a “Heart of Darkness” feeling, but without the slaughtered natives littering the riverbank.  We wandered into the giant otters territory where we cut the motor and let the boat drift through the otter family as they all barked at us and swam after the boat.  A BBC documentary on giant otters was filmed here on the farm and this was the family featured.

The plan was to spotlight the banks of the river on the way back to see the nocturnal creatures.  We had barely turned back and were still nearly an hour away from the farmhouse when the spotlight battery died.  The rest of the trip Leo sped to try and catch as much light as he could and then guided us back through the narrows and hairpin turns (and past the anaconda) with just a flashlight.  It was dark.  We had to trust that Leo knew what he was doing, and then there came a huge thud and a smacking noise as a piranha jumped into the boat in the dark.  Of course mayhem ensued until one of the braver tourists caught it by the tail (not the sharp toothy end) and threw it overboard.

Wild times in the Pantanal!  Now it’s time for dinner which requires no effort from me except rolling up to the buffet table.

June 12, 2010.

This morning I got to take it easy, read and catch up on my Portuguese lessons which I have neglected atrociously since there has been English speaking people to talk to and translate for the past three days.

There was rain moving in this afternoon.  The air hung with humidity as I took the opportunity to hop in the car with Jiro for a shopping trip into town.  Miranda is a working agricultural town with a slight nod towards Pantanal tourism.  But really there is nothing much to see or do unless you have come into town from a local farm to do your shopping.  It’s sleepy but perfectly friendly.

I tried on a pair of locally made leather working boots at the supermercardo.  They looked wonderfully authentic, but they sure weren’t made for comfort.

We did the rounds of the local mechanical and agricultural shops and had stopped at one to fix a motor when the rains came down.   It had been weeks since the last rain and the smell of wet earth and decaying vegetation rose into the air.  We drove home through the last of the storm.  I guess Jiro felt bad for having left me sitting in the truck for so long so he bought me a strawberry ice-cream and listened to Brazilian country music as we bounced along with rough road home in the old farm truck.

The Pantanal is to the Americas what the Serengeti is to Africa

"The aquatic heart of South America showcases some of the most breathtaking gatherings of mammals, birds and reptiles that you could ever hope to see.  The numbers in the world's largest wetland can challenge credulity with the smallest of lakes often so crowded with fur, feathers and scale that you will be pushed to spot an uninhabited square meter of water.  The Pantanal, in short, is a wildlife-watchers paradise."

Well, that's about all I know about the Pantanal today.  Straight from the guidebook.  I'm heading to Brazil next week to volunteer for three months at a small, family run eco-lodge near Campo Grande.  As an added bonus, Brazil could win the World Cup while I'm there.

Things I need to learn in a hurry:
1.  Portuguese
2.  The rules of soccor
3.  The difference between an anteater and a tamandua
4.  How to make piranha soup

Wish me luck!!!!

Camping

Hitting the Road

Tomorrow morning I am leaving the farm and hitting the road for a 10 day camping trip around Namibia. I'm not planning on taking my laptop and modem so I probably won't be updating my blog again until I get back to San Francisco on November 18.

Savaged by the cheetah

I do enjoy the occasional sensationalist headline. Okay, so it wasn’t me who was savaged by the cheetah. And when I say “savaged”, I mean he was scratched enough to bleed. And when I say “bleed” I don’t mean pouring blood, more like a bit of oozing blood. But it was the cheetah that caused the bleeding scratches, so technically . . . . . . .

I was walking to school yesterday when I saw the office manager followed by one of the guests heading towards to laundry room where they keep the first-

aide kit. I noticed that the guest’s clothes were torn, so I stopped to find out what the problem was. The guest had bleeding scratches all over his legs and arms. He said he had been taking the cheetah for a walk when it had attacked him. He seemed to be in a jolly mood about it “look, I got attacked by a cheetah, isn’t that cool”. From a health and safety standpoint I was a little bit more concerned. I had finally taken the cheetah for a walk the day before (see photos below) and the big cat had gnawed a bit at my lower leg but didn’t put enough oomph into it to break the skin. I must say it was a bit of a troubling experience to have a cheetah gnawing at my leg, but in my case she seemed to be just playing around. Although, it would have been a great badge of courage to have a cheetah scar. Nothing disfiguring, just something I could whip out at dinner parties to make myself sound interesting. Alas, no luck. I asked Stoffle (who takes the cheetah walking every morning and evening) what had happened. Had the guest done something stupid like trying to hug the cheetah? His answer was “no, the cheetah just went after him. Maybe she didn’t like him.” Of course the cheetah attack was a hot topic of conversation over dinner. The cheetah seems to have just lunged at him again and again. He had defensive wounds all over his arms including one nasty puncture wound in his forearm from the cheetah’s dewclaw. While the cheetah had his jaws clasped around the guest’s forearm, the guest had the presence of mind (strangely) to grab his camera in his other hand, hold it at arms length and snap a really cool photo of the cheetah’s mouth attached to his arm. One of the other guests on the campsite had seen the attack happen. She hadn’t realized it was a “tame, pet cheetah” and had seen the big cat run at the unsuspecting man. She had yelled “watch out behind you” and become hysterical as she watched the attack unfold. Apparently it had been quite a scene. All the guests sign a disclaimer when they check into the guest house saying that they recognize there are dangerous animals on the farm and they take full responsibility for their own safely. The three-legged cheetah’s name is Circa and she was hand raised from a cub and probably isn’t full sized yet. Someone needs to decide when this animal is finally getting too big and dangerous to be unrestrained around the guests! I only have two more days left at the farm. I guess it’s not going to be my problem.

Bartending African Style

Patting the three-legged cheetah

Tales from a Namibian Classroom

Denzel’s first words of English seem to be “No chickens in class.

” Every day, at some point, and maybe as many as 10 times a day, chickens seem to think the classroom is a good place to get out of the sun. Whenever we see a chicken in the threshold, the tradition is to turn around, wave our arms wildly and yell “no chickens in class!” Denzel has taken to jumping up and chasing them away with arms flailing and a big grin on his face squeaking “no chickens in class! No chickens!!!!” At least I’ve taught him something. If nothing else, he’ll make a fine security guard when he grows up. All last week the class kept breaking out into a chorus of “Happy birthday three you”. It sounded so hilarious I didn’t have the heart to correct them. Eventually I found out it was Vivian’s 4th birthday. Yesterday Vivian turned up to class an hour late looking like she had been on a three day birthday bender. She was looking groggy and disoriented. She was wearing a ski jacket and boots which was very odd considering it was 100 degrees F outside. Her face was covered in dirt and her very crusty clothes hadn’t been changed for at least three days. In her little fist she was clutching a high caliber bullet – the type that is used to bring down big game. If she had been 15 years older, my suspicions would have been “I just woke up after three days of drinking and drugs and found my lover shot dead next to me.” However, considering she is 4 years old and her mother just had a new baby last week, I’m guessing her mother is a little overwhelmed right now and poor Vivian isn’t getting much sleep either with the new baby crying. Goodness only knows where she got the bullet, but she didn’t fuss when I insisted she hand it over to me. I put it up on a high shelf where the kiddies can’t get to it. The classroom is about 100 feet from the leopard enclosure. Sometimes we can see Rex the leopard up in his tree from our windows. He just hangs there in the branches looking like a big stuffed animal. Of course he is enclosed with an electric fence, so maybe that’s why he doesn’t look too frightening. Leopards are dangerous predators. So I wasn’t too surprised when the children jumped up last week, went to the windows and yelled “Leopard”. I went to have a look, but I couldn’t see Rex in his tree. The kids insisted and kept pointing. I know there are also free roaming leopards on the farm, but they are pretty stealthy and wouldn’t come so close to the houses. Yet the kids just kept insisting and dragged me outside. There, about 20 feet from the kindergarten, they pointed out leopard prints in the sand. Now, I wouldn’t know a leopard print from a dog’s print so maybe they were pulling my leg. Still, I could console myself that little Denzel (who would holding my hand and looking up at me all worried with his big brown eyes) would make much easier prey than big old me. Not that I was really planning on throwing Denzel to the leopard. In all reality, the leopard (if it was indeed a leopard and not a figment of the kids’ imagination) would certainly go for a chicken first.

The battle with the 'beest continues

After my last encounter with my evil nemesis, the snorting wildebeest, I asked the wildlife volunteer if wildebeest have been known to attack humans. She claimed this was ridiculous and even if their snorting sounded fierce, they would eventually run away.

Feeling fortified with a renewed confidence in my personal safety, I took my traditional walk along the river bed as the sun was setting. Parts of the track are sandy and don’t make the loud crunching sound that you hear when walking on the gravel trail. I was wandering along, listening to the birds, contemplating the meaning of life, when right behind me, at a range of less than 20 feet, I heard a loud snort. My heart leapt to my throat. My mind frantically searching for my “yo mamma is so ugly . . . “ wildebeest insult as I swung around to face the imminent peril . . . . . .

Running up behind me in her sneakers on the sand was the wildlife volunteer – snorting . . . . and laughing hysterically as I swung around in panic.

Okay, so maybe the wildebeest isn’t my greatest nemesis anymore. I was taking a hike through the mountains this morning and I heard a yell that sounded vaguely like “stop”. It was loud. It sounded human and it sure stopped me in my tracks as I looked around to find out who was out there. The yell came again, sounding very agitated. I scanned the hill opposite and a big, hairy baboon had climbed a tree and was staring me down.

There had been some talk the night before at dinner that they had found baboon in the enclosure of the three-

legged cheetah. The boss was extremely concerned. Baboons kill cheetah. Baboon would sure make easy pickings of a cheetah with only three legs and with nowhere to run because it can’t climb over the fence like the baboon can. There are a lot of baboons around since we saw the big mob of them cross the riverbed last week. There had also been a discussion about whether baboons were territorial. The general wisdom is that baboons are not territorial over their home range, but male baboons are territorial about their females. So I tried to explain to the yelling baboon that I wasn’t interested in his women. He kept yelling at me. Since I was all alone in the middle of the African bush and I know baboons are mean enough to kill cheetah, I thought I had better err on the side of caution. I backed off and retraced my steps back to the house.

Apologies to George Orwell

I came across my old nemesis the snorting wildebeest yesterday as I was taking a walk along the river on the road to the farm gate. This time there was no scrambling effort to run. Out of the silence of the bush came a loud, threatening snort. It was followed 10 seconds later with another louder snort, and then another. I looked up. The ‘beest was about 50 feet away staring me down. He caught me unawares. The tone of the snort seemed to suggest “those pants sure make your bum look big.

” I was taken aback by the suddenness of the insult and the steadfast way he stood his ground. Shaken, I turned on my heels and walked back towards the house. You may have foiled me this time, you snorting, foul-breathed wildebeest. But as Pepe La Pew (the great rogue romantic and philosopher) would say “those who fight and run away, they live to fight another day.” Next time I’ll be more prepared. Maybe something that starts with “yo Momma’s so ugly . . . . etc etc”. This morning over breakfast a huge troop of baboons crossed the river bed to the stand of trees just opposite the terrace. As I drank my morning coffee, I watched them comes in waves. Whole families, some of the baboons mere babes, running in from the bush to congregate in a huddle near the farmhouse. Two of the largest baboons climbed to the top of the largest tree and sat staring at us. Studying us. Marking our every movement through the house. If I didn’t know better, I would think they were plotting something. As I walked back towards my stone hut, the cheetah looked at me from his enclosure. He seemed to be pacing around the gate in an irritated fashion. He opened his jaws and beneath the low meowing I swear I heard him mutter “four legs good, two legs bad”. With three legs, no wonder he was looking nervous and confused. Or maybe I’ve just been in the bush too long.

Oryx for dinner

I was sitting in the kitchen having lunch with the other volunteers this afternoon when the owner walked in with Bully (his great big hunting dog). Bully was filthy and the boss was looking very sweaty and had blood on his clothes.

They had just come back from hunting an oryx for dinner. The owner had shot a “young female” oryx. When asked why he didn’t shoot one of the bucks he grinned and said “I don’t like young females” trying to get a rise out of the three young females at the table. But really the animal in question had just been standing at the right angle to get a good shot. He says he shot too low and Bully went racing after the wounded oryx the run it down and corner it. A second shot brought the animal down.

There is no sport hunting on the farm anymore. Most of the animals have been restocked after they stopped cattle farming in the 1960s and opened the property up as a guest house (the first in Namibia). There are some sport hunting farms that ship animals in just so Rambo types can chase them down and shoot them. A neighboring farm offers sport hunting of leopards and the boss is appalled and trying to get it stopped. The guest house proudly boasts “Three Flowers” which is an ecological rating for resorts. However, there is minimal, sustainable hunting for supplying the kitchen.

Since we’ve been eating nothing but beef for the last two weeks, it will be nice to have oryx for dinner. Hmmmmmm, oryx. It tastes just like beef, but it has a much cooler name so I can now bore people at dinner parties in California with the subtle differences. “Yes, indeed, this steak tastes somewhat like that freshly killed oryx I had once in Namibia. We sliced a bloody chunk of roast right off its haunches. I bit into the bullet and it nearly broke my teeth!

” My future plans include become an insufferable bore!

Snorting and clicking

I took a walk around the Khomas mountains yesterday before dinner. When the wind is completely still, the silence of the bush is unworldly. Birds seem to have already gone to roost at that time of the evening. The only sound is the crunching of shoes in the quartz gravel and the faint sloshing sound of my water bottle. It almost feels like you are in a sensory deprivation chamber with only two distinct sounds being fed to you.

Half way through my walk I startled some wildebeest. They made a quick, scrambling noise and then trotted ahead of me. I was just as startled as them. Then one of them decided to stand his ground. He stared at me and snorted. I waved my arms and shouted back. There was a standoff. Wildebeest won’t attack, but they are much bigger than me. He snorted. I waved and yelled some made-

up wildebeest insult about what yummy steak he would make. He didn’t seem to like that and I won the day and continued on my merry way back down the mountain. I made the mistake of inviting too many guests to the kindergarten today. They turned up all at once in a big bunch of six – two families with teenage children. The poor kiddies where outnumbered and immediately looked intimidated. The kids all have huge, forceful personalities, but they completely clammed up. These six big people who were feeling so good about themselves for visiting a kindergarten in Africa were basically saying “hey, kid, play with me”. “Hey kid, do you want some pencils.” “Hey kid, pose over here away from the window for a photo.” I looked up amongst the scrum of photographers at one point and a very overbearing German woman standing five feet away from me had her camera pointed right at me for a “candid shot of the teacher”. BLOODY EXCUSE ME!!!! If you want to take a photo of me, you have only to ask. I am not a static display of local color and that is just plain rude. I have to give the kids credit. They mostly kept their cool and were respectful, but they absolutely refused to perform a cute act. Good for them! They were having none of it and the guests didn’t seem to realize at all how miserable they were making the kids with such overwhelming fawning. At one point I had the kids sitting at a table playing with play-dough and a circle of guests totally surrounding us. I reached out for something and Patrick smacked my hand. Now, Patrick knows that hitting anyone in the class will get him physically thrown out of the room. Hitting the teacher will bring down the wrath of God! I looked into his eyes and I could see the clear message “please get rid of these people.” So I did. Patrick was a perfect gentleman the rest of the day. One of the employees had a baby yesterday (a new sister for one of the girls in my class). We first heard it was a boy and they were going to name it !ontas (or some such thing). The ! is the symbol for the clicking noise they make in the Damara language. I thought it was a bit limiting for a child in the modern world to have a name beginning with a click. I’m doing the genealogy of the families at the lodge and none of them have clicks in their names. Their names are overwhelmingly European. A couple of hours later we found out it was actually a girl and they are going to name her Geraldine. I only have two weeks left at the guest house. It makes me feel sad just thinking about leaving – although a nice spicy meal of non-German food would be very welcome right about now.

Strange tribal tatoos

The kiddies in my class like to test the sharpness of the colored pencils by poking them into cheeks. Sometimes they use they own cheeks. Sometimes they use the cheeks of their classmates who participate with gusto. If the child cries out “ouch” then the pencil is sharp enough for the coloring task at hand. If they don’t cry out, then it’s back to the sharpener. They seem to enjoy the process, so I don’t try to stop them.

My younger sister managed to tattoo her own forehead with a colored pencil when she was 7 years old. She somehow managed to jam a light blue colored pencil into her forehead with such force that the color got under the skin and even today, 30 years later, if you look hard enough you can see the blue spot.

Now, logically, it is possible that all this cheek poking with sharp pencils will occasionally break the skin. I wonder if they will end up with permanently tattooed brightly colored freckles. Maybe some anthropologist will come by in years to come and marvel at the strange tribal tattooing.

Black Mamba and a sunset the color of cotton candy

I learned something new yesterday. Poisonous refers to a toxin that is ingested. Venomous refers to a toxin that is injected. Therefore, there is no such thing as a “poisonous snake” unless you fancy eating one for dinner.

The black mamba snake just outside the guest house gate went down a treat on the game drive yesterday. It seems they are rare in these parts, so having one so close to the house is rather exciting. While it is the world’s more aggressive and venomous (not poisonous) snake, the guests seemed to be thrilled. I just happened to be on the game drive yesterday and we followed it in the safari truck for about 10 minutes snapping pictures. Over dinner last night the owner refused to believe that it was a black mamba until we all pulled out our cameras and proved it to him.

A whole family group of giraffes have wandered into the riverbed in front of the house. I was going to take a wander down there to gawk at them this evening. But, considering that’s exactly where we saw the black mamba, I think I’ll give it a miss.

I got talking to one of the guest last night who is a volunteer for the VSO (Volunteer Service Organization) at the University of Namibia where her job is to facilitate the studies of disabled students. She has been doing it for 10 months and it has been an assignment from hell. She has two quadriplegic students that she is supposed to be helping. Both of them really need 24 hour care. She has no help and doesn’t have the body strength to shift them in their seats if they complain of being uncomfortable in their wheelchairs. Plus she is taking care of other visually and hearing impaired students all of whom need constant attention. The faculty is unresponsive and doesn’t want her there. When she complains, they just ignore her. She is living in Windhoek where invariably all of her volunteer friends have been mugged at knife point during their time in the city. She had come to the guest house just to get away from it for a day.

When we got back from the game drive, I cleaned myself up and went to tend the little bar in the lapa. There was a magnificent blue and pink sunset and I was early, so I poured myself a glass of wine and wandered to the lapa lounge area that looks over the dry river bed. The eland were chomping at the grass about 15 feet away and the sky was starting to fill with the stars that on moonless nights are blinding. The air was hot and still and you could hear the scurry of other animals wandering down the river bed. The new horse volunteer came by for a chat. She just arrived from Minnesota two days ago and is all young and bright eyed and excited to be in Africa. We grabbed our flash lights and spot lighted the riverbank to see what we could see out there. The kitchen was cooking up a feast of beef stew with green beans and pasta with apple fritters for dessert and a new and more-

interesting-than-usual group of English speaking guests were starting to gather for dinner. We all sat up to 11pm in the warm Namibian night solving the world’s problems over wine and Amarula. I’m so glad I didn’t volunteer with the VSO.

Baboons don't like cameras either

It seems the baboons don’t like the wildlife surveillance cameras either. The camera near the dam was found scattered and smashed. The last photo on the memory card was a big baboon face. We’re going to have to find a new secure casing for the camera equipment.

One of the mothers of the children in my class seems to have contracted the measles. It’s either that, or some other type of allergic reaction. I’m happy to say that my mother was very diligent when it came to getting us vaccinated, so I’m in no danger. But people still die from measles here in Africa.

The boss has it in his head to have a big, Michael Jackson moonwalking competition here at the guest house on Saturday afternoon. The kiddies in my class have been bursting out with the chorus of “Beat it” the whole time I’ve been here. They take their Michael Jackson very seriously here. I have to say the Damara aren’t very exuberant people. You might say they are shy. I think getting any of them up on stage is going to be hard. They don’t want to embarrass themselves. Whatever happens, I will be right there with my trusty video camera.

Gore splattered on my camera

Since yesterday was my day off, I thought I might as well go and get some video of the cheetah and leopard feeding. Once again the guide let me sit in the passenger’s seat of the battered old safari vehicle with no doors. However, this time he parked the passenger side on the side of the cheetahs! The cheetah’s were literally 2 feet away. If I had been so inclined I could have reached out and poked them in the eye. Yan (the guide who feeds the cheetah) sat next to me on the passenger seat and fed the cheetah from there so he could give the tourists in my truck some better photo angles. I had my video camera rolling the whole time. I was so close I couldn’t pan back far enough to get a good shot.

Yan was throwing the meat into the air and the cheetahs were catching it about three feet away. I don’t know whether it was the backsplash from a meat toss, or whether it flew from the cheetah’s gnashing jaws, but a small chunk of meat flew up in the air and landed squarely on my video camera.

So, technically, my camera was splattered with gore during a cheetah feeding frenzy. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. I’ll be old and grey and sitting in a nursing home and the people around me will be saying “oh no, not that gore-

on-the-camera story again.” Of course by then I’ll have embellished the story to last just over an hour and it will start something like “Now listen, you young whippersnapper! You think your cat is ferocious! Let me tell you the story of when I was young and working on a safari farm in Namibia. Now we didn’t have those puny house cats you have today. Noooooo. We kept wild cheetah to play with. Some had three legs. Some had four legs. But if they had their mind set, they would rip you limb from limb like nobody’s business. One day as I was feeding the cheetah . . . . . . .” I chose not to spoil a good story with the truth like “the cheetahs on the farm are almost tame”, “I was never in any danger”, “cheetah aren’t particularly dangerous and would never attack a human.” (This last paragraph is for the sake of my Mum – just in case she is reading this and gets needlessly worried that I’m taking risks.)

The dreaded travel writers

The dreaded travel writers showed up last night. I presume they are travel writers. They are the first young, good-

looking men I have seen here in three weeks. They turned up at the bar last night looking grumpy, carrying a big camera, taking pictures of everything and not engaging in conversation no matter how hard we tried. Perhaps they were annoyed they were sent to deepest darkest Africa and not the assignment they wanted in the South of France! I found their complete grumpiness so amusing that I could hardly stop myself from laughing. They listened intently to the conversation over dinner, but not once joined in. This morning I saw them taking a photo of the food on the breakfast table. I asked them if they had taken lots of photos during their trip and one grunted “yes, 600 photos on the first day. That is our job.” Oh the intrigue. Also last night at the dinner table I found the first people who didn’t have a good time in Namibia. Everyone up until now has been waxing lyrical about the country and laughing off the various misadventures (luggage lost after it fell out the back of a safari truck, flat tires, bogging their cars in sand, etc). However the German couple last night were whining “Namibia is so expensive – for the price we are paying to stay here tonight, we could have stayed at the Ritz in Paris”. Or “it’s so hot and dry, one minute after you get out of the swimming pool you are completely dry, hot and sweaty again”, “the dry air makes my skin go horrible and my hair like straw”. Yes, all these things are true, but THIS IS AFRICA!!!! What on earth did they expect? Today is my “day off”. It is Sunday so there is no school. I missed my opportunity to take a morning hike. You have to plan to be back inside by 11am at the very latest, otherwise it is just too hot and unpleasant. Maybe I’ll take a walk to the dam for sunset instead and see if I can spot the rhino. Rhino tracks for the big male were spotted on the game drive yesterday, so he’s somewhere nearby.

A day in the life of the Guest House

I seem to have settled into the daily routine here at the guest house.

At 7:

30am we have breakfast on the terrace overlooking the dry river bed. If there are too many guests, the volunteers eat in the kitchen. The cooks at the guest house make their own german brown bread and it has enough fiber to unblock a drain! I tend to slather it with gobs of butter to make it palatable. I’m sure the bread is good for me, but I seem to be eating my own body weight in butter. They serve breakfast continental style with cold meat and granola and yoghurt. Sometimes the eland or wildebeest will wander past during breakfast. At 9:30 I head towards the school. The employee housing is just 100 meters from my room. I bought a couple of Preschool teaching books when I was in Windhoek last week. Since I only have four students, I just trace the lessons through the paper four times. At 10am the kiddies turn up. They give me a big grin and a big hug and look like they are ever-so pleased to be in school. That sentiment doesn’t necessarily last very long. Trying to explain the lessons to them is difficult. I’m not sure if they are getting it at all. I plough along regardless. We got to the letter “O” today, but it probably was just an excuse for them to color in an Ostrich. By 1pm the school is finished. I head to the kitchen for lunch of more brown bread with gobs of butter and cold meat. I like eating in the kitchen away from the guests. The wildlife volunteer is usually there and we have a chat and I read the “African Geographic Magazine”. By 2pm it feels like an oven outside. The air is extremely dry and the sun extremely bright. All the staff go home for a few hours. Only the crazy pale German tourists without any common sense decide to sit by the pool and get a tan. I took a dip in the pool once the first week I was here. It was surprising cold. For a few hours I stay in my stone hut reading a book, taking a nap, working on my projects and my blog. I try to make a habit of taking a walk at 6 o’clock as the sun goes down. Today it’s raining, so I’m just going to sit tight. Strangely the rain screws up my internet broadband reception. Until the clouds clear, I can’t get a signal. At 7:30pm I go and tend bar. There are only a maximum of 20 guests per night, and there are three of us to help at the bar, so it isn’t very strenuous. Usually I just pour myself a glass of wine and chat to the guests, make a couple of gin and tonics, pour a few beers. It’s the same conversations every night “did you go to the cheetah feeding? How was that? Did you go on the game drive? What animals did you see? Have you been to Etosha yet?” (Etosha is the big game park in Namibia and the main tourist draw. I have yet to find a tourist who hasn’t been to Etosha or isn’t planning on going to Etosha.) At 8pm is dinner. All the guests sit around a big table in the dry-grass roofed lapa area. It’s always red meat – usually game like kudu, wildebeest or oryx. The table is lit with hurricane lanterns and the walls are decorated with a big zebra skin and animal skulls and various “African themed” ornaments. Sometimes the guests are quite pleasant (when you can find one that doesn’t mind speaking English). Other nights are painful where the guests just don’t want to talk or seem to have nothing to say to each other. The owner has been doing the same dinner service every night for 20 years. He knows how to coax a conversation out of just about anyone. It helps that he speaks five languages. With any luck the guest are finished by about 10pm. I help clear up and take the dishes to the kitchen, then I stagger back to my room and go to sleep.