Part I: Where to Go?

As my twenty-fifth birthday was fast approaching, and with it the end of my flight benefits, it was certain I had to make one last trip.  I've been very lucky; the opportunity of flight benefits is something few get to have, and fortunately I'm restless and not just a little curious.

Ever since I've come to the age of venturing out alone in the unknown, I think I've made a good show of what my life has had to offer.  Those who've read the other hastily scribbled entries on this blog are well familiar.  This is the latest chapter and I promise not the last.  My passport to the sky may have expired, but boats are proving to be pretty affordable on this piece of the         world.  Hopefully next time I will be writing to you from ports with beard and tan, sails, shine, and all the free wind Aeolus may bless this hopeful selcouthist sailor.

It was a rainy day in Vancouver and I sat with two friends and asked: where should I go? We prattled around with several suggestions, but I felt the incessant tap of the little kid in me, reminding me once again of a promise I made to him.  That was long ago, and funny enough, that's where my bucket list started.

I find it a little strange that bucket lists only become really important when much of life has already been lived.  Especially considering we start so young in compiling such important lists.  Childhood is spent in the language of bucket lists.  We are constantly asked what we want to be when we grow up.  We constantly talk of the things we will do, things we would do if only we were older.  Remembering now, childhood is like recalling a dream.  And I wonder if that nebulous and painful line between adolescence and 'adulthood' is like waking up in the morning.  The buzz of the alarm clock is more present, the obligations of work and people more important than the dreams we wake from.  How simply and sad the dream of childhood is forgotten.  How willing we all are to procrastinate on the truly important things in life. 

Several years ago, I spent a good deal of energy seeking out people in the latter decades of their life and asking them respectfully what it was they regretted about their lives.  The answer is unanimous.  Almost no one regrets what they did; life happens - shit happens, you can't change it, but everyone wished they’d taken more chances, they regretted the things they didn't do.

I've pondered this in the years since –ponder it still- and I must say, it does quick work to cut through the bullshit that comes up in day-to-day life.  It also prompted me to write down my bucket list.  I figured, even if I don't do it all, at least it'll all exist in some form instead of just being all talk.  Lo and behold who pipes up first when the pen hits the paper but that kid I once was, a little boy who watched JAWS at an ungodly young age (thanks Grammy) and fell in love with white sharks.

I set my sights on Africa, for Safari and Cage-Diving.

I packed, got on a plane and went.

Part II: London Layover & Breaking the Equator

I've found that it's best not to plan everything out before travelling, otherwise people stress themselves out far too much trying to meet their own deadlines – not my kind of game.

So when I got to London, I realized for the first time that I had a solid 12 hour layover.  Now, I love layovers, especially long ones.  I rarely waste a pocket of completely unobligated time and after the thousands upon thousands of hours I’ve spent in airports, I know that few realize what a gift it can be. 

With my baggage in a holding service, I hopped on the express and went straight into Central London.  (Entry Tax in the U.K. only applies if you’re there for more than 24 hours: score)  I didn't know it when I woke up to sunrise on the plane, but I had a very busy day ahead of me.  Popping up first at Trafalgar square, I visited the National Gallery (knowing that all the museums in London are free: score).  There's a good number of Turner paintings that I've always wanted to see and now was my chance.  Little did I know that Rembrant's last self-portrait, one of my favorites, is also at this Gallery.  

Big Ben seen from Trafalgar Square.  The National Gallery is just behind me.

Some pompous young dude in front of the National Gallery.

He got in all my pictures.  Here he is in front of the British Museum.

I ended up visiting not just the National Gallery and the British Museum, but also the Tate Modern and a pub for some fish'n'chips along with a Guinness.  The day was a bit like sprinting spliced with quiet meditative breaks.  Well worth it.  And fortunately all that running around wore me out so that by the time I boarded my flight south to Johannesburg, I passed right out.  Now that’s what I call a layover. 

The morning star came up in the East.  The dark world split into land and sky.  The morning star pulled with it a hot edge of blue.  Africa was below me, around me in every direction, it was the horizons.  

The jetway tunneled heat.  I wasn't just in a new time zone, I had passed the equator for the first time in my life (an aerial shellback, one might say..) and was on the other end of the year's seasons: summer.     

Hoedspruit was my next destination.  This is a pinprick on a map just west of central Kruger National Park.  I booked the next flight and within an hour I was back in the sky.

Looking down over the African land, it was green, patchy and grew to heights like bluffs - mountainous compared to the Mississippi bluffs of Iowa and southern Minnesota.  The bluffs grew larger, more frequent as we flew and then faulted and the land spread flat beyond them to the east, to Kruger.  Throttle eased and ailerons limp locked, we began our descent and it was here in these quick moments over the trees that my Safari started.  Three giraffes fished up into some distant trees, licking leaves from the branches. 

The Hoedspruit airport proved to be smaller than the airplane it serviced.  The beige-bricked building was a bit like Katmandu International, but with a bit better upkeep. 

Luckily, in such a small airport, it's much easier to find the car rental agencies.  

"No booking?" The man behind the counter asked.  

"Nope."

"Ok, I got one car left."

"Sweet, I'll take it."

He pulled around a tiny red Fiat.

Well hell.  It's only me and my backpack, what difference does it make?  I just won't take any pictures of it.  It was a stick shift - a redeeming quality.

I'll tell you right now though, I cranked that sucker up to 80 on a dirt road in the middle of the park and got the bloody little car airborne, so Fiat, my hat's off to you - damn fine car.  

After fuelling up and getting a map I took off on the open road, north towards the Phalaborwa gate.  

The land looked flat from above but it was still full of ripples, a rumpled land, hot and dry.  I cranked the windows, the music, the speed and took off with that great feeling - not of expectation but a sense of wandering, of curiosity.

I stopped in a small town to stock up on some provisions for the trip (3 bottles of wine and a bottle of cognac) and found myself to be the only white person around.  I'll say only that it's quite an experience to have everyone staring at you.

The Phalaborwa gate was easy enough to find after a couple hours drive. I was admitted after showing proof of my rest camp bookings (the only part of the trip I pre-booked).  The gate lifted and I was free into the park.