Check out my contribution to Bolivian travel plugs - an article written by Sasha Arms about prison tourism, for which I was interviewed regarding my San Pedro experience.
http://www.urbantravelblog.com/feature/san-pedro-prison-tours
And you all called me crazy!
Tuesday, 4 May 2010
Monday, 3 May 2010
Thinks in Rhyme all the Time
If I were a frog, I would write a blog
About the meaning of life and the fun that was Pog.
I'd rhyme all the time, drinking soda with lime,
And save the whole world with my skills fighting crime.
But I'm just a girl with earrings of pearl,
And when I am nervous I vomit and hurl.
I like dinosaurs and cleansing my pores
I have lots of friends, and few of them whores.
My boyfriend is Dan, he's his own biggest fan
And my grandma knows him as the dunny can man.
I play the guitar like a superstar,
And trumpet and bass, and golf below par.
I roll on my side and I do it with pride,
Down hills and up mountains, an interesting ride.
I enjoy drinking tea and climbing a tree,
And travel and skiing and swimming in sea.
I do like my brothers, and Stephanie Schaefer
And Ellie MacCarthy and chocolates with wafer.
I like to speak German, my name isn't Herman,
If I were a mermaid Dan would be a merman.
I'm his Miss Piggy and he is my Kermit,
If he were a cave then I'd be a hermit.
I'm writing at home, near the end of this poem.
It doesn't make sense nor is packaged in foam.
I do not eat meat, or have smelly feet,
I simply write poems - consider this a treat.
So this is the end of my poetry feat,
I'm heading to bed and bidding retreat.
Fin
About the meaning of life and the fun that was Pog.
I'd rhyme all the time, drinking soda with lime,
And save the whole world with my skills fighting crime.
But I'm just a girl with earrings of pearl,
And when I am nervous I vomit and hurl.
I like dinosaurs and cleansing my pores
I have lots of friends, and few of them whores.
My boyfriend is Dan, he's his own biggest fan
And my grandma knows him as the dunny can man.
I play the guitar like a superstar,
And trumpet and bass, and golf below par.
I roll on my side and I do it with pride,
Down hills and up mountains, an interesting ride.
I enjoy drinking tea and climbing a tree,
And travel and skiing and swimming in sea.
I do like my brothers, and Stephanie Schaefer
And Ellie MacCarthy and chocolates with wafer.
I like to speak German, my name isn't Herman,
If I were a mermaid Dan would be a merman.
I'm his Miss Piggy and he is my Kermit,
If he were a cave then I'd be a hermit.
I'm writing at home, near the end of this poem.
It doesn't make sense nor is packaged in foam.
I do not eat meat, or have smelly feet,
I simply write poems - consider this a treat.
So this is the end of my poetry feat,
I'm heading to bed and bidding retreat.
Fin
Sunday, 31 January 2010
Things I love you more than...
...The scene at the end of a video game, especially if it's Mario
Knowing the answer on 'Wheel of Fortune'
Not standing behind tall people at gigs
Getting home just in time for neighbours
Vegetarian nachos with lots of jalapenos
Conributing a little known fact during Trivial Pursuit
Putting a toilet plunger on my knee and pretending it's a peg leg
When Steph curls/straightens/styles my hair
Grabbing an umbrella as I'm running out the door then actually needing it
Receiving a new threadless tee in the mail
Walking in heels and not falling over
Putting on bandaids when I do fall over in heels
Playing with a new piercing after it's stopped hurting
Not being able to see then remembering I have glasses and actually being able to see
Correcting the spelling of others
When my dogs don't do what they're told but are so cute I just don't care
Winning consecutive points in pool
Having both bananas AND strawberries so I can make delicious smoothies
Acually making said smoothies
Coffee with lots of powdered chocolate on top
Pretending I want to buy a twelve string guitar just so I can play the ones in the shop for free
Spinny chairs
Friends marathons
Going places I don't need to wear shoes
Really good mixed CDs
Not going to the dentist
Having a really good costume for a dress up party
A good sandwich
Frosty fruits
Playing bingo and the announcer saying "two fat ladies"
Colouring my lips with Smarties
Neighbours episode names
Hiding from you in department stores
When my chickens chase each other
Photos of pennyfarthings
Knowing the answer on 'Wheel of Fortune'
Not standing behind tall people at gigs
Getting home just in time for neighbours
Vegetarian nachos with lots of jalapenos
Conributing a little known fact during Trivial Pursuit
Putting a toilet plunger on my knee and pretending it's a peg leg
When Steph curls/straightens/styles my hair
Grabbing an umbrella as I'm running out the door then actually needing it
Receiving a new threadless tee in the mail
Walking in heels and not falling over
Putting on bandaids when I do fall over in heels
Playing with a new piercing after it's stopped hurting
Not being able to see then remembering I have glasses and actually being able to see
Correcting the spelling of others
When my dogs don't do what they're told but are so cute I just don't care
Winning consecutive points in pool
Having both bananas AND strawberries so I can make delicious smoothies
Acually making said smoothies
Coffee with lots of powdered chocolate on top
Pretending I want to buy a twelve string guitar just so I can play the ones in the shop for free
Spinny chairs
Friends marathons
Going places I don't need to wear shoes
Really good mixed CDs
Not going to the dentist
Having a really good costume for a dress up party
A good sandwich
Frosty fruits
Playing bingo and the announcer saying "two fat ladies"
Colouring my lips with Smarties
Neighbours episode names
Hiding from you in department stores
When my chickens chase each other
Photos of pennyfarthings
Wednesday, 27 January 2010
Things in Transit
Dan has been pestering me to write memoirs. Or recount more travel stories, and he's sick of hearing about "that time in hospital". As are we all. I'll probably talk about it anyway. For now, here are the things I thinks of my airport experiences, where a lot of adventures begin.
There was one time I was at Sydney airport ready to go to New Zealand and my dad lost my boarding pass, but that in itself isn't much of a story. So I'll start with Lima, Peru. For some reason, the cheapest way to get from Cuzco, Peru, to La Paz, Bolivia, was via Lima. It's in completely the wrong direction and involves two flights, a 12 hour wait, and stretches about as far as my purse strings, so it was a deal. About the most exciting thing to do was sit in the food court and leech off the free wifi, which I did about as long as my dad could stand skyping me. Other than that, I wrote postcards. After cramming in as many stories about the Inca Trail as I could and ensuring I didn't waste the Peruvian stamps I had purchased with my precious Soles, I went hunting for a letter box and successfuly located one using my very best Spanish (ie. pointing to my postcards with a questioning expression). The round trip took all of about ten minutes, and on my return I found the patrons of the food court standing about 20 metres from where they previously had been sitting. Having missed the English announcements, and as the loudspeaker couldn't express itself through gesture or interpretive dance, I was at a loss. After some time, everyone went back to their seats. I looked around until I found my traveling companion and had (apparently) witnessed my first bomb scare. Someone had left a suitcase unattended, and while it was probably just a bag of dirty laundry, the authorities were taking no chances. I was quietly confident that a bomb big enough to blow up an airport would impact us somewhat even given our 20 metre buffer zone, though in the end it really was just a bag of someone's dirty laundry, and there was nothing to worry about. That was about the most exciting thing to happen that day.
Entering Brazil from Bolivia involved an overnight train trip lasting about 13 hours. We went through Bolivian immigration, though to officially and legally be in Brazil we had to drive another long while to the bus station and have our passports and visas checked (the Brazilian visa was a saga in itself, but that's for another day). They gave me my immigration slip, told me not to lose it, and nearly didn't stamp my passport. That would've been a fun story to explain on the way out, particularly with my lack of Portugese language skills. After hitching a ride on a truck, we made it to our destination. A few weeks later, on entry to Argentina, we discovered a flat tyre. Dorothy, a 64 year old British woman and I, stood by the side of the road trying to flag down a ride. Eventually a tour bus pulled over for us and gave us a lift. There were six spare seats and six stranded travelers. It was seriously meant to be. Back in Brazil, packing my old kit bag to leave old Rio, I discovered their domestic and international airports were not in the same place, but approximately 40km apart. My itinerary involved flying from Rio to Sao Paulo to Johannesburg to Cape Town. So... domestic or international? We asked Alberto and took his word for the domestic terminal. Good call. Now remember that immigration slip I was told not to lose? And if you lose it it's a US$95 fine or a black card against ever re-entering the country. Well, I didn't lose it, but for a while I thought I did. There was a little confusion over my ticket on reaching Johannesburg, though the airline was the only one not knowing what was going on, and touch down in Cape Town was as smooth as anything. Success. I did see a girl in a bit of a pickle as she didn't have her yellow fever certificate, but after that long in transit, I really didn't care.
Now the crossover from Zambia into Malawi was a good one. We drove eight hours one day so we were close to the border for the morning drive. Javier, the resident Mexican of the clan, had done everything by the book to be granted his visa, though on presenting all the appropriate documentation was told he had to drive nine hours back where we came from. Brilliant. With a little sweet talking from Mutiso, our Kenyan guide, he was allowed in for the day. A detour later, we waited around for a few hours while he went to the embassy. The embassy's lunch hour came, during which we did some more waiting. And a little bit more, before we found out what we already knew - he had done everything by the book, and was allowed into the country. Already behind schedule, you can imagine how excited we were by a road block en route to the Luwawa Forest. Just what we needed. It was kind of fun though - the Malawian president was coming through town and all the locals had come out to see him and cheer. Our white skin was a novelty and a lovely thing to behold. The president himself was dressed in something Elvis might wear but in blue, and preaching to the masses from the roof of a car. What a hunk. The road to the forest was long and bumpy after that, not to mention narrow. Our truck had to run over trees to pass another car.
And then getting on the plane in London I was all but cavity searched. Arriving home in Sydney, they asked if my guitar was the only wooden thing to declare and waved me through.
What a world.
There was one time I was at Sydney airport ready to go to New Zealand and my dad lost my boarding pass, but that in itself isn't much of a story. So I'll start with Lima, Peru. For some reason, the cheapest way to get from Cuzco, Peru, to La Paz, Bolivia, was via Lima. It's in completely the wrong direction and involves two flights, a 12 hour wait, and stretches about as far as my purse strings, so it was a deal. About the most exciting thing to do was sit in the food court and leech off the free wifi, which I did about as long as my dad could stand skyping me. Other than that, I wrote postcards. After cramming in as many stories about the Inca Trail as I could and ensuring I didn't waste the Peruvian stamps I had purchased with my precious Soles, I went hunting for a letter box and successfuly located one using my very best Spanish (ie. pointing to my postcards with a questioning expression). The round trip took all of about ten minutes, and on my return I found the patrons of the food court standing about 20 metres from where they previously had been sitting. Having missed the English announcements, and as the loudspeaker couldn't express itself through gesture or interpretive dance, I was at a loss. After some time, everyone went back to their seats. I looked around until I found my traveling companion and had (apparently) witnessed my first bomb scare. Someone had left a suitcase unattended, and while it was probably just a bag of dirty laundry, the authorities were taking no chances. I was quietly confident that a bomb big enough to blow up an airport would impact us somewhat even given our 20 metre buffer zone, though in the end it really was just a bag of someone's dirty laundry, and there was nothing to worry about. That was about the most exciting thing to happen that day.
Entering Brazil from Bolivia involved an overnight train trip lasting about 13 hours. We went through Bolivian immigration, though to officially and legally be in Brazil we had to drive another long while to the bus station and have our passports and visas checked (the Brazilian visa was a saga in itself, but that's for another day). They gave me my immigration slip, told me not to lose it, and nearly didn't stamp my passport. That would've been a fun story to explain on the way out, particularly with my lack of Portugese language skills. After hitching a ride on a truck, we made it to our destination. A few weeks later, on entry to Argentina, we discovered a flat tyre. Dorothy, a 64 year old British woman and I, stood by the side of the road trying to flag down a ride. Eventually a tour bus pulled over for us and gave us a lift. There were six spare seats and six stranded travelers. It was seriously meant to be. Back in Brazil, packing my old kit bag to leave old Rio, I discovered their domestic and international airports were not in the same place, but approximately 40km apart. My itinerary involved flying from Rio to Sao Paulo to Johannesburg to Cape Town. So... domestic or international? We asked Alberto and took his word for the domestic terminal. Good call. Now remember that immigration slip I was told not to lose? And if you lose it it's a US$95 fine or a black card against ever re-entering the country. Well, I didn't lose it, but for a while I thought I did. There was a little confusion over my ticket on reaching Johannesburg, though the airline was the only one not knowing what was going on, and touch down in Cape Town was as smooth as anything. Success. I did see a girl in a bit of a pickle as she didn't have her yellow fever certificate, but after that long in transit, I really didn't care.
Now the crossover from Zambia into Malawi was a good one. We drove eight hours one day so we were close to the border for the morning drive. Javier, the resident Mexican of the clan, had done everything by the book to be granted his visa, though on presenting all the appropriate documentation was told he had to drive nine hours back where we came from. Brilliant. With a little sweet talking from Mutiso, our Kenyan guide, he was allowed in for the day. A detour later, we waited around for a few hours while he went to the embassy. The embassy's lunch hour came, during which we did some more waiting. And a little bit more, before we found out what we already knew - he had done everything by the book, and was allowed into the country. Already behind schedule, you can imagine how excited we were by a road block en route to the Luwawa Forest. Just what we needed. It was kind of fun though - the Malawian president was coming through town and all the locals had come out to see him and cheer. Our white skin was a novelty and a lovely thing to behold. The president himself was dressed in something Elvis might wear but in blue, and preaching to the masses from the roof of a car. What a hunk. The road to the forest was long and bumpy after that, not to mention narrow. Our truck had to run over trees to pass another car.
And then getting on the plane in London I was all but cavity searched. Arriving home in Sydney, they asked if my guitar was the only wooden thing to declare and waved me through.
What a world.
Tuesday, 15 December 2009
The Things I Does in Bolivia
Sunday 8th February 2009, San Pedro Prison, La Paz
Happily awoke this morning – nothing like the promise of a visit to prison to get you started! Dorothy and I found the prison alright – a big building, not particularly prison-like save the two small watchtowers on the corners, the police bus out front and the rifle-wielding guards standing non-chalantly around. We had been told that by loitering in the park opposite we'd be approached in no time with an invitation inside. Well, an hour passed during which our best loitering skills were put to use, but there was a line of locals at the door with large supplies of foodstuffs (onions, eggs, bread rolls etc.), and we began to think Sunday is perhaps for family and food supplies only, or the guards out the front were deterring potential break-in tourists. Needing to be in and out by 11:30, 10 o'clock rocked up and we very skeptically gave it 15 more minutes. At 10 past we were approached by a white lady with a smoky South African accent, who I was sure had been a tourist. Shadier characters had made eye contact with us but evidently for reasons other, unbeknownst to us. To finally be approached, especially as we began hatching plan B (buying tomatoes, mainly) was most exciting. This lady walked us straight in to her “office” on the inside, told us to hide our cameras on our persons (mine was too conspicuous in my pocket but fit down my pants and could be neatly concealed by my jacket), and after her coming back and forth a few times (and a sneaky bribe sent to the right people) we were let straight in!
Now this prison isn't any ordinary one (obviously). Inmates have to pay for their cells, meals etc. Everyone has a job: there are tour guides, artisans, chefs, hairdressers, carpenters, and plenty of drug dealers. In hindsight it's actually quite lucky security didn't bother checking my bag on the way in on account of the coca leaves I had (to make tea, though it is also the root of cocaine), albeit in a tiny quantity. The prison is just like an insular, smelly, dirty community. Wives and children live there too. There are churches, a school, pool rooms, cement courts for soccer and tennis, restaurants, stalls, and even advertising for Coca-Cola. Have to wonder how many kids brought up inside end up back there. They were pretty cute though and very happily took the lollies we gave them. Our guide, Ramiro, was 19 and in for drug trafficking. His English was pretty basic, and he has hopes of getting out, going to uni and becoming an English teacher. Best of luck to him. His friend who silently accompanied us was 25 and in for a murder he says he didn't do. It was a real snap back to reality to walk through a cafe-plaza type area and be told the surrounding cells belonged to murderers. Ramiro seemed to harbour a penchant for washing areas, showing us numerous bathroom and laundry facilities. We were also shown to a cement hole, kind of like a small pool. The explanation we were given was newcoming inmates were “initiated” with a chilly nighttime swim, though when Emma went all she was told was 3 prisoners were recently killed there. Convicted for paedophilia or rape or some such crimes, other inmates paid guards to bring in the dead men walking and then to leave. Lives are evidently fairly inexpensive commodities.
But the protocol of money exchange only perpetuates the problems of currency and values. The smaller cells constitute an upfront payment of US$120 – a substantial amount for a Bolivian prisoner, even moreso given the shoebox dimensions it actually buys, and loads more than I'd pay for the smell of sewage wherever you go. And the cells at the brighter end of the spectrum must be owned by the prison's own drug lords. The more they worsen their biggest problem, the better their living standards and hierarchical standing. Furthermore, a get out of jail card can be purchased for US$4000. Emma told us her guide was awaiting trial on trafficking charges, but not expecting a fair trial, was trying to raise the funds before his trial date. I wonder how.
Now I'm not an expert on criminal detainment, but this place seemed an easy escape. There was no barbed wire, Dorothy and I walked in and out without so much as a pat-down or bag check, and inmates don't even have uniforms. In fact, a group tunnelled their way to freedom quite recently. Given the murder last week, one can quite understand why. You're not allowed cameras inside, but given the only official guards are outside, in the watchtowers and at the entry (the guards on the inside are merely inmates trying to earn their keep), it was a very simple operation to get away with. We would've liked to have seen more but didn't have any more time. I particularly wanted to buy personalised bracelets made on the spot for Ben and I, but Ramiro didn't know the guy who did them (I had only been shown by Sam, one of the guys we had dinner with last night). We did see impressive chain wire sculptures and little metal buggies (VW), but to take them home would mean to break or damage them somehow on the way. Including tips and entry fee it was 275 Bolivianos, about AU$60. A huge amount of money by their standards, which apparently goes toward facilities for the children. But definitely the best thing I've seen in Bolivia thus far and I can't wait to read the book. The rest of the day has been a 3.5hr bus ride (had a lovely chat with Dorothy), went and got icecream (and a warm beer) and now on a 7.5hr BUMPY train ride, my excuse for the bad handwriting. A good day though, and certainly worth the 5 pages of my travel diary.
Happily awoke this morning – nothing like the promise of a visit to prison to get you started! Dorothy and I found the prison alright – a big building, not particularly prison-like save the two small watchtowers on the corners, the police bus out front and the rifle-wielding guards standing non-chalantly around. We had been told that by loitering in the park opposite we'd be approached in no time with an invitation inside. Well, an hour passed during which our best loitering skills were put to use, but there was a line of locals at the door with large supplies of foodstuffs (onions, eggs, bread rolls etc.), and we began to think Sunday is perhaps for family and food supplies only, or the guards out the front were deterring potential break-in tourists. Needing to be in and out by 11:30, 10 o'clock rocked up and we very skeptically gave it 15 more minutes. At 10 past we were approached by a white lady with a smoky South African accent, who I was sure had been a tourist. Shadier characters had made eye contact with us but evidently for reasons other, unbeknownst to us. To finally be approached, especially as we began hatching plan B (buying tomatoes, mainly) was most exciting. This lady walked us straight in to her “office” on the inside, told us to hide our cameras on our persons (mine was too conspicuous in my pocket but fit down my pants and could be neatly concealed by my jacket), and after her coming back and forth a few times (and a sneaky bribe sent to the right people) we were let straight in!
Now this prison isn't any ordinary one (obviously). Inmates have to pay for their cells, meals etc. Everyone has a job: there are tour guides, artisans, chefs, hairdressers, carpenters, and plenty of drug dealers. In hindsight it's actually quite lucky security didn't bother checking my bag on the way in on account of the coca leaves I had (to make tea, though it is also the root of cocaine), albeit in a tiny quantity. The prison is just like an insular, smelly, dirty community. Wives and children live there too. There are churches, a school, pool rooms, cement courts for soccer and tennis, restaurants, stalls, and even advertising for Coca-Cola. Have to wonder how many kids brought up inside end up back there. They were pretty cute though and very happily took the lollies we gave them. Our guide, Ramiro, was 19 and in for drug trafficking. His English was pretty basic, and he has hopes of getting out, going to uni and becoming an English teacher. Best of luck to him. His friend who silently accompanied us was 25 and in for a murder he says he didn't do. It was a real snap back to reality to walk through a cafe-plaza type area and be told the surrounding cells belonged to murderers. Ramiro seemed to harbour a penchant for washing areas, showing us numerous bathroom and laundry facilities. We were also shown to a cement hole, kind of like a small pool. The explanation we were given was newcoming inmates were “initiated” with a chilly nighttime swim, though when Emma went all she was told was 3 prisoners were recently killed there. Convicted for paedophilia or rape or some such crimes, other inmates paid guards to bring in the dead men walking and then to leave. Lives are evidently fairly inexpensive commodities.
But the protocol of money exchange only perpetuates the problems of currency and values. The smaller cells constitute an upfront payment of US$120 – a substantial amount for a Bolivian prisoner, even moreso given the shoebox dimensions it actually buys, and loads more than I'd pay for the smell of sewage wherever you go. And the cells at the brighter end of the spectrum must be owned by the prison's own drug lords. The more they worsen their biggest problem, the better their living standards and hierarchical standing. Furthermore, a get out of jail card can be purchased for US$4000. Emma told us her guide was awaiting trial on trafficking charges, but not expecting a fair trial, was trying to raise the funds before his trial date. I wonder how.
Now I'm not an expert on criminal detainment, but this place seemed an easy escape. There was no barbed wire, Dorothy and I walked in and out without so much as a pat-down or bag check, and inmates don't even have uniforms. In fact, a group tunnelled their way to freedom quite recently. Given the murder last week, one can quite understand why. You're not allowed cameras inside, but given the only official guards are outside, in the watchtowers and at the entry (the guards on the inside are merely inmates trying to earn their keep), it was a very simple operation to get away with. We would've liked to have seen more but didn't have any more time. I particularly wanted to buy personalised bracelets made on the spot for Ben and I, but Ramiro didn't know the guy who did them (I had only been shown by Sam, one of the guys we had dinner with last night). We did see impressive chain wire sculptures and little metal buggies (VW), but to take them home would mean to break or damage them somehow on the way. Including tips and entry fee it was 275 Bolivianos, about AU$60. A huge amount of money by their standards, which apparently goes toward facilities for the children. But definitely the best thing I've seen in Bolivia thus far and I can't wait to read the book. The rest of the day has been a 3.5hr bus ride (had a lovely chat with Dorothy), went and got icecream (and a warm beer) and now on a 7.5hr BUMPY train ride, my excuse for the bad handwriting. A good day though, and certainly worth the 5 pages of my travel diary.
Things About Sharks
Tuesday 10th March 2009
Dear Suth Efrican diary, and welcome to the most amazing experience you're ever likely to hear about!
After yesterday's disappointment, I was only cautiously optimistic as to what today had in store. Today was a moderately later start, with the bus collecting me at 6:30 and not 5:30, for the two hour drive which took 45 minutes longer. Thanks, roadworks. Nevertheless, on our arrival, Gaainsbai (literally “Goose Bay”) was sunny, calm, and practically inviting. Our boat set off into the sunshine, onboard: 25 passengers, 3 crew, and one shark cage. Passing several other boats already with anchors firmly dropped, we began the waiting game. After half an hour of our divemaster Viihann's actually highly interesting and informative monologue, someone spotted a shadow. The bait was out, the wetsuits hastily slicked on, and the cage tossed off the side. Having been denied the opportunity yesterday, I was most eager today. THE most eager, in fact, and I was the very first to be treading water in close proximity to the ocean's most feared predator. But if you're going to lose a limb, what better place than Shark Alley? And you certainly can't beat a good story!
The water was approximately 10-12 degrees, and while we were grateful for the wetsuits, we were somehow preoccupied as elongated shadows passed by us. There was a mix of accents and excited regional slang, the cage containing two Americans, sisters Meg & Kelly, two Irish mates, Owen & John, and my good self. At the command of the skipper (“SHARK UNDER BAIT!!!”) we simultaneously held tight to the metal grate surrounding us, held our breath, and plunged in with the highest of adrenaline-charged hopes. Then we all looked at each other, exchanged upward glances, and resurfaced. Did anyone see anything? Absolutely! But not anyone in the cage. Visibility was poor, and it was going to take some close contact to make this worth our while. Takes two, three, four & five proved exponentially more successful. Being furthest to the right and just where the bait was pulled in, I was in prime position. I saw a great big grey thing move swiftly past me a number of times. Then the air pockets in my wetsuit booties let out, allowing streams of bubbles a free path up my pants, causing the most unsettling of sensations, particularly when one has just encountered a Great White. I know, I know, the likelihood of a shark being in the cage with me was slim to none, but having seen a dorsal fin flip over and FELT a tail fin surge of water in my begoggled face, the cage itself was starting to feel about as secure as a shopping trolley.
Back with our heads above water to gawk and grin at one another as we caught our breath, the next sighting caught all of us, including those on board, literally out of the blue. Our eyes just at water level, the same shark lunged forward, straight toward us, swerving off as the skipper pulled the bait away at the last second. Yells of “whoa!” and “holy crap!” and other far less savoury remarks could be heard as we wriggled inside our wetsuits, somewhere between diving back down and weeing our collective pants. One more less visible go and it was out of the cage for us. Corey, the Canadian who missed out with us yesterday, was up next with a new team of four ambitious thrillseekers. And if we had a memorable experience, theirs was even better! On one of their shark's latter approaches, it physically hit the side of the cage and manoeuvred itself around the corner, brushing up against several cagees in its path. Truthfully, it was probably a better view from the boat itself, but to suddenly be rubbed against by a three metre Great White... they were all appropriately thrilled! Thankfully the 25kg of legally allocated bait was used up before we needed to contemplate throwing anyone over. The other boats moved in to pinch our area, but probably they had the wrong tactic. Losers. Summarising the day, Viihaan told us we had three sharks in total, two of them around 2.5m in length and the other around the 3m mark. All females, and all young. None of the other four or five boats out there with us saw anything, at least not while we were there. Our day was topped off with beer and wine, though a Great White encounter is definitely part of a private collection.
Dear Suth Efrican diary, and welcome to the most amazing experience you're ever likely to hear about!
After yesterday's disappointment, I was only cautiously optimistic as to what today had in store. Today was a moderately later start, with the bus collecting me at 6:30 and not 5:30, for the two hour drive which took 45 minutes longer. Thanks, roadworks. Nevertheless, on our arrival, Gaainsbai (literally “Goose Bay”) was sunny, calm, and practically inviting. Our boat set off into the sunshine, onboard: 25 passengers, 3 crew, and one shark cage. Passing several other boats already with anchors firmly dropped, we began the waiting game. After half an hour of our divemaster Viihann's actually highly interesting and informative monologue, someone spotted a shadow. The bait was out, the wetsuits hastily slicked on, and the cage tossed off the side. Having been denied the opportunity yesterday, I was most eager today. THE most eager, in fact, and I was the very first to be treading water in close proximity to the ocean's most feared predator. But if you're going to lose a limb, what better place than Shark Alley? And you certainly can't beat a good story!
The water was approximately 10-12 degrees, and while we were grateful for the wetsuits, we were somehow preoccupied as elongated shadows passed by us. There was a mix of accents and excited regional slang, the cage containing two Americans, sisters Meg & Kelly, two Irish mates, Owen & John, and my good self. At the command of the skipper (“SHARK UNDER BAIT!!!”) we simultaneously held tight to the metal grate surrounding us, held our breath, and plunged in with the highest of adrenaline-charged hopes. Then we all looked at each other, exchanged upward glances, and resurfaced. Did anyone see anything? Absolutely! But not anyone in the cage. Visibility was poor, and it was going to take some close contact to make this worth our while. Takes two, three, four & five proved exponentially more successful. Being furthest to the right and just where the bait was pulled in, I was in prime position. I saw a great big grey thing move swiftly past me a number of times. Then the air pockets in my wetsuit booties let out, allowing streams of bubbles a free path up my pants, causing the most unsettling of sensations, particularly when one has just encountered a Great White. I know, I know, the likelihood of a shark being in the cage with me was slim to none, but having seen a dorsal fin flip over and FELT a tail fin surge of water in my begoggled face, the cage itself was starting to feel about as secure as a shopping trolley.
Back with our heads above water to gawk and grin at one another as we caught our breath, the next sighting caught all of us, including those on board, literally out of the blue. Our eyes just at water level, the same shark lunged forward, straight toward us, swerving off as the skipper pulled the bait away at the last second. Yells of “whoa!” and “holy crap!” and other far less savoury remarks could be heard as we wriggled inside our wetsuits, somewhere between diving back down and weeing our collective pants. One more less visible go and it was out of the cage for us. Corey, the Canadian who missed out with us yesterday, was up next with a new team of four ambitious thrillseekers. And if we had a memorable experience, theirs was even better! On one of their shark's latter approaches, it physically hit the side of the cage and manoeuvred itself around the corner, brushing up against several cagees in its path. Truthfully, it was probably a better view from the boat itself, but to suddenly be rubbed against by a three metre Great White... they were all appropriately thrilled! Thankfully the 25kg of legally allocated bait was used up before we needed to contemplate throwing anyone over. The other boats moved in to pinch our area, but probably they had the wrong tactic. Losers. Summarising the day, Viihaan told us we had three sharks in total, two of them around 2.5m in length and the other around the 3m mark. All females, and all young. None of the other four or five boats out there with us saw anything, at least not while we were there. Our day was topped off with beer and wine, though a Great White encounter is definitely part of a private collection.
Monday, 7 December 2009
Travel Things That Happens
In list form, some of the strange things that happens during travels.
New Zealand: age five, discovered snow was cold
USA: life threatened by aggravated junkie
Canada: saw racoon. It was the strangest looking animal I had seen to date
Japan: bitten by deer
Austria: fell down Alp...
Germany: ...and ended up in hospital
Mexico: met Bart Simpson wearing a sombrero
Peru: bomb scare
Bolivia: bribed way into prison
Argentina: hitch-hiked
Brazil: piranha fishing
South Africa: swam with Great White Sharks
Namibia: ate caterpillars. And faceplanted going 67km/hr down a sand dune
Botswana: chased by baboon
Zambia: bunjee jumped over Victoria Falls and into...
Zimbabwe: sighted perfectly circular rainbow
Malawi: given love potion by witchdoctor
Tanzania: five days in hospital and nearly an amputation
Kenya: saw cement mixer truck tip over
England: toothpaste stolen by schizophrenic backpacker
Scotland: shook hands with cop after being asked to step out of fountain
Australia: all the things that Ernid thinks
New Zealand: age five, discovered snow was cold
USA: life threatened by aggravated junkie
Canada: saw racoon. It was the strangest looking animal I had seen to date
Japan: bitten by deer
Austria: fell down Alp...
Germany: ...and ended up in hospital
Mexico: met Bart Simpson wearing a sombrero
Peru: bomb scare
Bolivia: bribed way into prison
Argentina: hitch-hiked
Brazil: piranha fishing
South Africa: swam with Great White Sharks
Namibia: ate caterpillars. And faceplanted going 67km/hr down a sand dune
Botswana: chased by baboon
Zambia: bunjee jumped over Victoria Falls and into...
Zimbabwe: sighted perfectly circular rainbow
Malawi: given love potion by witchdoctor
Tanzania: five days in hospital and nearly an amputation
Kenya: saw cement mixer truck tip over
England: toothpaste stolen by schizophrenic backpacker
Scotland: shook hands with cop after being asked to step out of fountain
Australia: all the things that Ernid thinks
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