Cape Town Stadium and Mexico

I recently had the opportunity to attend a soccer match at the new Cape Town stadium, which was built for the 2010 World Cup. Even at a glance, the Cape Town stadium is gorgeous. The flowing, circular lines that outline the stadium against the backdrop of the Atlantic Ocean make it a beautiful sight to behold. I was told that the design was taken from the shape of a Zulu woman’s hat, which I now notice it strikingly resembles.

The energy in the stadium is electric. The energy fills me with excitement; until a fleeting ping of regret hits me as I close my eyes and imagine the tenable exhilaration that must have permeated the stadium during the World Cup games. A deep breath of the warm summer air brings me back to my own time and space and I find myself in my seat in the upper level of the stadium.

I have been both inspired and appalled by the racially motivated discourse here, but I giggled when I was told that the “wave” has been ascribed a cultural history. The “wave”, that collective action within a stadium that behests fans to stand and lift their arms in sequence as to have the effect of a wave, is apparently Mexican.

I visit my closest ally in the retrieval of information, Wikipedia, to confirm this. Apparently there may be some truth to this. There are rumours that this successive motion of stadium crowds originated in Mexico. Ironically, it does mention that in North America it is referred to merely as the ‘wave’. I’m unsure if this is a case of homogeneity wining again or if perhaps Mexico’s renounced proprietorship was a condition of NAFTA. Regardless, the Mexican Wave went around the stadium five full times before withering out to the distraction of the game… the next beer… or whatever. It’s funny that I had to learn about my neighbouring country while on another continent!

Hippo Hunt- Okavango Delta Style

I am no stranger to the hippo hunt. In fact, my hippo hunting experience spans two evenings… and a few bottles of wine. However, while in the remote Okavango Delta in Botswana, I was privy to a whole new side of said hippo hunt.

It is the day of our arrival. All eight of us in the tour group, plus tents, food and personal supplies for three days, arrive at our remote island destination in the delta on mokoro’s, a traditional canoe. There were two persons to a mokoro, plus the poler, who stood in the back of the mokoro with a pole about ten feet long that is used to push off the bottom of the shallow delta and propel the mokoro. Six mokoros in all wash up on the shores of the tiny, remote island in the delta about an hour and a half later.

We set up our tents and campsite. Then our local tour guides offer to take us on a game walk. We all hop into our mokoros and we head deeper into the delta. After a short twenty minute ride through the velvet waters and reed-lined aqua highways, we hit land again. It’s another of the hundreds of islands in the delta. We are led on foot through the savannah-like island. During our hour and a half long walk, we encounter a herd of African buffalo and an elephant before we hear the hippos.
The hippopotamus makes a very distinctive sound. It sounds a bit like a large, asthmatic pig with a terrible cold imitating Santa Clause’s ‘ho, ho, ho’s’, times ten. So we know it is them. And they are nearby. Even though I’ve seen them before in the wild, I still fill with a sense of fear and anticipation. Hippo’s are Africa’s deadliest animal and we are hours away from civilization and our only accompaniments are two small African men.

Our African guides are titillated. They lead us through the tall grass and around a large pond. The echoes of the hippos’ calls surround us. Large reeds obscure the snorting hippos creating a very eerie and uneasy sensation. Finally, we are corralled on a small mound in effort to get a better look. I’m just happy to improve my view for securities sake. Suddenly, the slipping sun abruptly hits my consciousness. At the same moment I was contemplating the impending darkness, I noticed- out of the corner of my eye- our African guides bent over in what seemed to be an unusual action in the middle of the African bush while surrounded by hippos.

They had taken their pants off. No, seriously; they took OFF their pants. They quickly began to engage in some sort of choreographed march over the reeds. As they marched their briefs sagged slightly in the behind. I blink in bewilderment. My travel partners and I squint hard to be sure our eyes are feeding our brains the correct information. Soon the choreographed movement reveals its purpose. Our guides were laying down reeds that were obscuring our view of the hippos in water. However, soon blinks turn to giggles and giggles to uncontrollable laughter. Neither our aggregated perplexity nor our outright hysterics interrupted our dedicated guides.

The sun continues to set. The men continue to pat down the reeds. The hippos continue to billow their chuckles. We have no weapon; no flashlight. There are no trails to follow back to camp. Anxiety builds. We talk amongst ourselves. We discuss a plan to explain to our guides that we should be leaving, enlighten them of our imminent perils. But now they are nearly twenty yards into the murky banks of the hippo infested pond. I’m sure NOT going in after them! It seems an eternity until they finally walk back to their pants and nonchalantly pull them over their droopy briefs and start to lead us back to the mokoros.

The walk back was over an hour- most of it in the dark. We walk in a single file line and we huddle so close that I continually step on the person in front of me. I shudder, and then indignantly repeat to my fellow traveller, when one of the guides whispers to me that he doesn’t see well at night so I should keep my eyes peeled for the mokoros! Finally, we make it to the familiar mokoros and they safely whisk us through the liquid thoroughfares to the safety of our campsite. Crisis averted- barely!

The Smoke That Thunders

Victoria Falls is a heart thumping testament to the power of Mother Nature. Victoria Falls is also known by its indigenous name Mosi-o-Junga, which means “the smoke that thunders”. It’s indigenous name is much more apropos. Mosi-o-Junga is on the border of Zimbabwe and Zambia; each contains half the falls within their borders. Mosi-o-Junga is 5,604 feet wide and 354 feet high, roughly twice the size of Niagara Falls. It claims to be the world’s biggest water falls.

Like many of life’s most beautiful wonders, pictures are unable to portray its power and magnificence. The roar of the tons of plummeting water is nearly deafening. As I get closer to the falls, the thunderous rumble intensifies and the air thickens with mist. As near even further, the greener and denser the woodlands lining the trail become.

The spray from the falls is intense. It can rise as high as 2600 feet into the air. It is mid-march, closely approaching the height of peak flood season. The heaviest recorded flow is nearly twice that of Niagara Falls. The mist is so heavy that its thickness obscures much of the falls. I continue down the trail and mist turns to showers and showers to a torrential downpour. But it isn’t truly rain. It’s over a hundred degrees and sunny on this part of the earth today. The downpour is mist that rose high into the air only to succumb to gravity to fall again as raindrops.

The rain is so heavy I can’t even keep my eyes open. I fruitlessly use my hands to wipe my face and eyes, but the water is coming down in buckets. I am completely drenched from head to toe. There is no reprieve. The further I walk on the trails, as I near the falls, the more intense it becomes. Concrete stairs with borders collect the rain to create its own little step-waterfall. I have to take my flip-flops off while walking down one of the stairwells for fear that the fast-running water may wash them away off my feet! On a short metal bridge, Zambia’s Knife-Edge Bridge, which connects one cliff to another, I find half a dozen young, dark Zambian children playing a slip-and-slide. The puddle of water at the end of the bridge is well over my ankle. The rain continues to gush.

The experience is exhilarating. While much of the falls were obscured by the mist, it was almost as if the falls themselves was reaching out to touch me. To top it off, a rainbow lay at nearly every turn as the viscous mist melts into the hot African sun. Magical!