HONG KONG - 31 Oct
Today's my birthday. I'm going to see how Halloween is celebrated Hong Kong style -- so I don't have time to update my travelogue right now...

Let me know if you're reading this and drop me an email if you haven't already!

DURBAN - 26 Oct
I had already written my final South Africa entry for this travelogue. I expected to come back to Durban, take a train back up to Johannesburg and hop on my plane to Hong Kong. It wasn't that simple.

It was meant to be a "sleepy train ride" back to the station and then the airport, but I should have known it wouldn't be when I got on the train and someone called my name.

As I get older, I'm becoming more and more doubtful of the coincidence. Here's the situation -- over a week ago, when I was first in Durban, a guy named Sylvester (although I'd forgotten) approached me out of the blue. He said he was a fellow traveller, as he could tell I was by my backpack. Since I usually consider my backpack a big neon sign reading "Hey -- I'm a tourist, come take advantage of me," I was a bit weary. After talking to him for a bit, and realising he didn't seem to have an 'angle', I decided he was probably a good guy. Still, I wasn't in the mood for conversation because this was back when I was frustratingly running out of ways to get to the Drakensberg. Not talking to him would be my loss, I'd find out in time.

Seven days later, Sylvester just happened to be the first face I'd see as I boarded the 3rd class coach train. The 3rd class coach train I'd chosen because the ticket lady said I'd have to buy 2nd class tickets at the gate, and running late, 3rd class tickets were the only tickets I could have in hand immediately. I had wanted 2nd class train tickets, rather than bus tickets because a bus would get me to Jo'burg early and I had time to kill -- so why not a train ride? With all of those random decisions made at the last minute, you wouldn't have bet on the odds of my running into Sylvester again. But I did.

As we talked on the train, I wished I had made more of an effort before. Having grown up in KwaZulu-Natal, he was a wealth of knowledge and information that could have made my trip a richer experience. I hadn't had enough time to observer that there were rivalries between the "low-bred" Zulu and the "high-bred" Zulu, who were closer to the ruling families of the past. The most regal being those with the surname "Zulu" who could trace their lineage to Shaka. As a "low-bred" Zulu, Sylvester has been chased as a youth, and he attributed that experience to his wanting to travel. He told me that if people learned that one of his ancestors was a Scotsman, they probably would have burned his house down. However, even though I'd missed those details, I should have been able to guess that this sort of social stratification existed. What's "high bred" in one land is "high caste" in another and is "of a good family" in a third. Different types of stripes and a Zulu shield were no different than the elaborate coat-of-arms worn on a blazer. People really aren't that different in how they draw boundaries around themselves -- all that changes is the language used to describe "us" versus "them."

But here's where I really lost out. Sylvester remembered a woman in the Drakensberg who would have given me a place to stay. "She probably wouldn't have charged you, she'd just want you to sit and talk with her a while." Damn.

After talking about our reasons for travelling, I realised how much of a kindred spirit Sylvester was. He was me two years from now if I had chosen to settle down instead of taking a trip around the world. He had a job in advertising, go married, and did all the things you're meant to do on the road to 2.5 kids and a house in the suburbs, and then he realised that's not what he's meant to do. However,
for him the stakes were higher. He was going to travel now, and hope his wife was still there for him when he got back.

Sylvester's next stop was Malawi. I bit my tongue and went for my pocket Atlas before I showed my ignorance by saying "Where in Hawaii is that?" When he saw my Atlas, he told me that he had lost his. As it turns out, I had two. The one that my friend Arati had given me and the one I had bought before. This had been a bit of a dilemma for me. I didn't need two, but I didn't want to discard either. It was the perfect opportunity. I gave Sylvester the one I had bought myself and kept the gift. I didn't expect anything in return, but he gave me his grandfather's hand carved wooden slingshot. "It's a little rude" he laughed, as I noticed that the slingshot was carved in the shape of a woman with her legs as the forked prongs used for the sling. Still -- it was perfect. I hadn't bought any crafts because it makes me feel like a tourist, and I'd rather think of myself as a traveller.

Tourism seems like cultural prostitution. Sure, communities can make money out of it, but at what cost? Sylvester told me of seeing bowls for sale at rediculous prices when the same sort of utilitarian bowls were made by his mother to discard after use. If you sell expensive crap, it doesn't change the fact that you think it's crap and those that place a value on it, fools. There's no pride in that.

That was the high point of the train ride. After two hours, the conversation died down and I realised that the seat wasn't very comfortable, Nietzsche wasn't keeping me awake and I still had eleven hours to go. I couldn't evesdrop on the noisy co-passengers chatting away in their native tongue. These ladies (merchants who sold their goods to support themselves since their husbands had been killed, Sylvester would tell me) found some innovative ways to get comfortable on the ride. One woman threw a mat up onto the luggage railing and slept on the metal bars. Most of these women were very... healthy, so I was glad that she hadn't chosen the railing above my head.

Somehow I managed to fall asleep, and wake up again just before gangrene had set into my legs. Along with the daylight, I noticed that we weren't moving and we had stopped longer than the usual station stop. Sylvester went to see if there was a problem and came back to tell me that someone had stolen the electrical cabling up ahead. I wasn't worried at this point. I could spare an hour or so and still have plenty of time to catch my plane. Two hours later, however, it didn't seem like any of the train engineers had more of a plan in place than to remark that "yes, they were stolen alright" and "this happens all the time." That's when I started to worry. Even if the train were to start moving at that point, I'd still get to Johannesburg with less than an hour to get to the airport for my flight.

I had no choice but to head for town. Sylvester decided to come too, and I'm glad he did because he was able to negotiate with the taxis and minivans as I stood back and said "yeah -- what he said." We found a minivan to Heidelburg, and we'd have to take another ride up from their. All through my trip, I was wondering about these beat up minivans that you see picking up and dropping off the hitchhikers along the road who were holding out cryptic signs in some sort of pidgin shorthand, with codes like "XA" or "XF." I felt like I had been let in to some secret society. I was further initiated by a crazy toothless man who assured me that we were cousins, and made me promise that there wasn't any anthrax in my bags.

From Heidelburg, Sylvester arranged another minivan to Jo'burg. From Jo'burg station we met his wife, and then scrambled to find an ATM and a cab while I tried to explain to her who-the-hell I was and why I was in such a hurry.

Sylvester had a heart of gold. There's no way I could have made my plane that smoothly (and without getting ripped off) without his help. At times he seemed more concerned about my making my flight than I did. Unfortunately, his generosity was matched by his knack for finding the slowest taxis in the world. I rushed out of the station and jumped into the cab ready to go, but all of a sudden I was in a scene from Driving Miss Daisy. Riding to the airport felt like a leisurely Sunday drive around the neighborhood. We were on time, but it seemed like we should be hurrying -- because that's what you do! But no. We were the slowest car on the road. I tried to be patient, and my eyes watered as I held back every wise-ass comment that came to mind. By not being rude, I think it was then that my New Yorker status was revoked.

I kind of felt bad for this little old man. He was obviously in the wrong profession. As we puttered down the road, his steering wheel twiched from left to right in the manner that very insecure drivers and children play-pretending to drive have in common.

I lost it, however, when despite an extended discussion about how I was going to Hong Kong, and it would be good to get there early for an international flight, he turned into the 'Domestic Departures' lane. "International flights!! Yeah??" I snapped.

So, in the end, I thought I had already closed the book on South Africa the day before when I started reading my "Hong Kong - Travellers' Tales" and watched "Rush Hour 2" to get warmed up for my next destination. But South Africa hadn't closed the book on me. She wouldn't let me leave until making sure I had more than enough reasons to return.

HLUHLUWE - 25 Oct
The drive up to Hluhluwe (no, I can't pronounce it either) was mostly uneventful. Except for the part where I was driving on a dirt road like it was a video game. Not surprisingly, it's less funny when you spin out in real life. ("Where did you take this car?" The Budget rental car lady would later ask.) After more cautious driving I found a lodge for the night. It was the first left off of that-damn-road before it becomes more-of-the-same, so it was perfectly located.

The next morning I went up to the park. Unfortunately it was rainy and overcast. I immediately saw a pair of disinterested Zebras and jumpy antelopes, so I thought I was in for a drive jam-packed with beasties. However, for the next few hours I saw only Kindas. Trees that kinda looked like a giraffe or elephant or a bush that kinda looked like a crouching lion. What was worse than the ignominy of staring at shubbery for ten minutes, was that I had to stay in the car, so I couldn't even enjoy hiking through the surrounding hillside.

Driving around looking for wildlife feels a bit like trying to play hide-and-seek wearing clogs. Finally, I did see a couple of giraffe heads bobbing through the trees.

I drove around for another couple of hours, and saw the odd antelope or wildebeest -- in other words your B-list animals that didn't rank among the big five: elephants, lions, rhinos, leopards and buffalo. But just as I was ready to give up -- I saw an elephant snacking on some trees nearby. Soon, I would come around and get a close up view of the giraffes I had seen before, and finally I'd find the less than impressive waterbuffalo.

But for a park famous for its rhino, the only ones I saw were the carved wooden ones being hawked by the kids outside the park's gates. Kids that didn't have wooden rhino to sell stood in the road, forcing me to stop, and danced a crazy, unsmiling little jig. Then they asked for money. It felt like a mild hijacking, so I refused.

DURBAN - 23 Oct
I could have stayed in Port St. John's for the rest of the trip. It was warm & sunny with nice people and great beaches. But something was nagging me. I couldn't come to Africa without seeing some wild animals. So far, my closest animal encounter was staring down a monkey who was enviously eyeing my breakfast. (It was a bluff. One sudden move, accompanied by a shriek, and that toast and coffee would have been his.) So like Drakensberg, I decided to put PSJ on my list of places to return to, and move on.

I had to make a big decision -- north or south? Would I push on to Cape Town? Would I get to the most southern tip of Africa to say I'd been there? No. I decided to be sensible and not put myself in a position where I'd have to take a 20+ hour drive to make my flight. I also realised that it would be just as nightmarish to get to Kruger National Park and back to Durban. So I went for Hluhuwe, the second best, where I had been told "you'll have a better chance of seeing the animals, because it's smaller."

After driving 5 hours up the coast, I reached Durban again. I was tired. I was tired of being grimy, bathing in brown water, sleeping with snoring roommates and having trouble getting to sleep as I worried if, in the middle of the night, that salamander on the wall might decide that my open mouth is a snug little home. So again, I put my budget aside and checking into the Holiday Inn overlooking the beach. In the steam of the long, luxurious bath I'd take that night I could see my worries and my cash floating gently away.

PORT ST. JOHN'S - 22 Oct
After the first hike, I went back for lunch and then headed out to see "Sugar Loaf." I didn't know what it was, but I had directions to find it. I didn't follow the directions very well, because I wound up in front of a gate to someone's farm. The farm had an interesting thatched hut next to it, so I sat in the driveway and sketched it. Just as I had finished, and put my sketchpad away, 3 young girls came out of the gate starting at this strange man sitting cross-legged in their driveway.

I left the farm and headed downhill to a rocky stretch of land which extended a path into the ocean ending with a huge rock. This must be Sugar Loaf. Down on the rock plateau, the whole scene looked prehistoric. Every detail down to the bird pirched on its nest doing a Pterodactyl impression. With nothing but the palms and ferns behind, bare craggy landscape in front, and ocean on either side it was easy enough to imagine that it was the beginning of time.

PORT ST. JOHN'S - 22 Oct
In the morning, I headed for the Gap, a V-shaped split at the edge of the mountain where it makes a steep descent into the Indian Ocean. To get there I crossed the Second Beach and found a trail up the hill, into the jungle. What's nice about Port St. John's is that it's really jungle-lite. You can get the big ferns, palms, giant bamboo and strange animal noises without really worrying about being in danger. If you're startled by something it's usually the sound an unseen small furry mammal running for it's life.

I continued up the path, but took a wrong turn, because I was now in a little makeshift Gilligan's Island garden. Suddenly, out of nowhere a man wearing only his beard pops out of the garden, winks at me and walks around the bend. I quickly turn to leave when I hear "feel free to have a look around." So I did.

He had built some sort of dome over an open living area -- a bed, a small stove. All of this was facing the open sea. Around the corner was a porcelain toilet, stuck in the ground and looking very out of place. I asked aloud (because, thankfully, I couldn't see where he had gone) how long he'd been living there. "Four years," was his reply, "it was just jungle up here when I arrived. I've built it up bit by bit."

"Do you own this land or did you just squat?" I asked, immediately wishing I hadn't used the word 'squat'. He didn't reply. He was either out of earshot, or the topic of land ownership is of little interest to naked hermits.

I've been reading "Thus Spoke Zarathustra," so the thought of a hermit made me wonder if he had acquired some sort of wisdom living out here like this. I also wondered why a naked man would unashamedly wink at a stranger who had intruded into his home. I decided if the answer to the former meant learning more about the latter -- it's best to remain unenlightened.

I made my way back to the correct trail and climbed down the gap and back up again on the other side so I could continue down to the edge of the water. At the bottom, I sat on a rock edge next to the "Blowhole." This was where the share edge of the mountain cut into the ocean at an angle that split the tide such that the waves crash on the higher side and come spilling over the edge into a trench. This trench goes underneath the rock surface and opens up again at a small hole further in. Waves that are strong enough crash into the end with a splash that shoots mist straight into the air -- thus the 'blowhole' effect.

As I came back to the beach, I tried a different path that led me to another lodge. This place was larger and beautifully cared for, built out of polished bamboo rods, some natural, some stained red. I was out of water, so I asked a lady if she would refill my bottle. She did, and then helped me find my way back to the beach. I showed my thanks by playing a neat little wooden percussion number with my butt as I slipped down the stairs.

"Water please. Oh -- and I'm a vegetarian."
I'll remember to say that next time. After I had glug-glug'd a good liter of water I noticed that the dirt I had thought was on the outside of my bottle was actually on the inside. As I looked more closely I saw that while the black particles were settling down, little tiny white particles weren't settling at all. In fact they were erratically darting every way, but down.

Again, it's appropriate that I'm reading Nietzsche. "That which doesn't kill you will make you a Nazi" -- or something like that. In comic books, this experience would give me superhuman powers. Maybe I'll become Projectile Excretion Man and his Mini-Mites!

PORT ST. JOHN'S - 21 Oct
Port St. John's was a destination shrouded in mystery. If 'mystery' is what you call pea-soup fog, with cows and hitchhiking farmers darting into the road. As I drove into the mist, "A Bright Sunshiny Day" came on the radio, right on cue.

When I arrived, I headed for a place called "The Lodge," as recommended by my trusty guidebook. A lady named Katherine showed me the room, but it was more expensive and less attractive than the place where I had stayed in Mooi River so I thought I'd check the place next door -- a backpacker's hostel. I was weary of hostels since I had stayed in a room in Durban with two guys who kept me awake with tag-team snoring (some will see the irony in this). At any rate, since it was off-season I had a good chance of getting a room to myself. As I walked up the driveway of the hostel I saw three german shepards jump up and run around the gate towards me. I kept calm by repeatedly thinking, "killer dogs are bad for business, killer dogs are bad for business..." They were not-unfriendly, as they sniffed me instead of mauling me, so I guess I passed their 'intruder' test. Next, I was greeted by a small blonde toddler that wobbled over to me. Despite a round little face that could be taken either way, I could tell he was a boy. I knew this because he stopped, turned to the side and started peeing on the gatepost. Obviously he had learned a few tricks from the dogs. I finally found a nice hippie lady who showed me around. At first sight of the rooms, I was filled with dread, then I was filled with mucus -- the thick smell of dogs (there were three more, making six in total) were triggering my allergies. However, she was so cool, if it were only the garish rooms I still would have stayed there. This made it hard for me to say I wasn't taking the room. I apologised and tried to assure her that I really did have allergies and wasn't making a sly comment about the cleanliness of the hostel. It was an awkward situation. Imagine me saying "I would stay, but it's the dogs. I mean, I'm not afraid of having that many dogs around -- I have allergies. It's the dog hair. No -- not that there's hair all over the place, it's just the smell. Oh...."

It went on like that for a while and after a discussion of who did or didn't own pets in the area I went back to The Lodge, next door, and accepted the overpriced room.

"Ok," Katherine said, "but we have a problem with our gate. Cars are not safe. You can park your car next door if you ask. Will that be awkward?"

MOOI RIVER - 21 Oct
As much as I enjoyed the mountains. The nights were cold, and I wasn't planning on cool weather for this part of the trip, so I decided to head for Port St. John's where I had been told that the jungle spills out on to sandy beaches surrounded by rocky cliffs. That sounded about right. I will come back to the Drakensberg to experience it properly. This trip is more of a survey than anything else. An opportunity for me to scout out the parts of the world I'll have to return to. I'd recommend hiking up the mountain for anyone searching for a source of creativity. During a four hour walk, I was able to run through the entire plot of a book idea I have, and even started thinking about a part two.

But it was time to leave the mountains, and the KwaZulu-Natal region for Transkei, the Wild Coast. The tourist slogan of KwaZulu-Natal is "Kingdom of the Zulus." I find this a little off-putting. Sure the Zulus were a proud and powerful society, but they were also conquered, subjigated and deccimated. This glorification of their past seems to indirectly point to the legacy of Apartheid, which probably contravenes the goal of the slogan. It's kind of like saying "don't mention the war" or "don't think of the color 'red'" It makes it all that you can think about, because this is not the "Kingdom of the Zulus" -- it's the kingdom of a rich white minority and a black underclass. I'm also bothered by the mascotisation of the Zulu warrior. Shield in one hand, spear in the other. It reduces an entire history of a people down to a visual cliche.

GIANT'S CASTLE - 20 Oct
my trip into the Drakensberg mountains... haven't finished writing it yet.

Returning from the hike, I discovered what had been wrong with the first part of the trip: cities. Cities are very demanding. Always asking "What will you see?" "What will you do?" "What time is it?" Once you get out of the city iy becomes amazingly simple to answer the question "What are you going to do?" Nothing.

I was setting the pace of life. Hiking along the valley, if I wanted to see the small forest cove across the river, I did. I didn't worry about leaving the trail. The trail wouldn't leave without me. I wouldn't be late for the trail.

Time became so distorted that given the cloudy weather I couldn't tell if it was morning, noon or evening. And that didn't matter. All that mattered was getting back to the lodge and taking a long nap.

PORT ST. JOHNS
I'm a bit backlogged...
I've written more on paper than I have time to copy onto the web. Which is good, because that was the point.

So check back in a few days for my account of Giant's Castle, the naked hermit and blow-holes.

MOOI RIVER - 20-Oct
The night before, the lady said I could park on the lawn in front of my cottage. It seemed strange at the time, but waking up in the morning to a Toyota ad was even more strange.

MOOI RIVER 19-Oct
I ignored the Let's Go guidebook which listed Mooi River as the town nearest to the Giant's Castle part of the Drakensberg. But I knew better -- I'd drive towards Giant's Castle and find a place on the way. What followed was a drive through the middle of nowhere as night fell on roads without lights. I drove over potholes that made it feel like a battleground and after an hour of this found a sign that read "Giant's Castle - 39 km" even though when I set out from Mooi river it was about 50 km away. So instead, I followed the other name on the sign. After another hour, I realised that this didn't lead me to a town, but rather to a dirt road towards a nature reserve. Now I was worried. I was now driving downhill on wet gravel. Driving on wet gravel is less steering and more suggesting a direction. I continued on determined to stop at the first place I could. An hour later, I found a lodge, and while the lady could have shown me any room at that point, it was a nice cottage with a double bed. And while she could have charged me anything, it was still within my budget. However, it was self-catering, so for dinner had to drive to a Wimpy's 10 minutes away -- which as it turns out was the same Wimpy's I had stopped at for lunch. In Mooi River.

DURBAN 19-Oct
Something wasn't right. Two days in Durban and I felt like I was sightseeing. The city hall, the Juma Masjid, people playing chess in the mall with giant plastic pieces - but I'm not travelling to go sightseeing. The problem was that I wasn't yet sure what I was travelling for.

I set out for the Drakensberg. The mountain range that were the reason I originally chose Durban as a stop. I figured since the mountains were 2-3 hours away it would be easy enough to find transportation. I was wrong. I went from Baz Bus to Greyhound to Aussie's Tours. No one could get me there that day, and I'd already wasted half of it. I needed mobility, so I forgot about my budget and rented a car. With only 8 days left in South Africa, I couldn't afford to bumble around.

So I called Budget, signed the contract and thought "Ah, the freedom to go wherever I want to go." Then I promptly hopped into the passenger's seat.

Customs in a foreign land can be strange. For instance, they tend to beep at you when you drive towards oncoming traffic. Also, they don't seem to understand that switching your windshield wipers on means that you're signaling a turn. Those damn meddling Brits. I'm sure if they had left South Africa alone the people would have realised that driving on the right-hand side is the correct way.

DURBAN
I can't say that Johannesburg has no redeeming qualities. But then that leaves me with nothing to say.

That's not really fair, I plan to get a better sense of Jo'burg on the return leg of my trip through South Africa. However, my first impression was that it wasn't really a place for sightseeing, so I headed straight for a bus to Durban where I'll be a few hours away from the Drakensburg moutain range.

At the bus stop, when I mentioned to someone who lived in Johannesburg that I hadn't been there long before leaving, he said "Yes. Of course."

LONDON
Looks like I'm ready to go. I've packed the last two years of my life into 8x8 square feet of storage. I've memorised my Canadian cover story - ey? I've taken one last picture on my digital camera (of me being attacked by crap IKEA art).

Next stop -- what's the word?

LONDON
Updated my itinerary. Senegal's been replaced by Santiago and Buenos Aires.

LONDON
This letter should keep me safe from nuts. Thanks Tara!

I also found out about Point It -- a brilliant picture book to be used as reference when travelling to places where you can't speak the language.

LONDON
"Be sure to take lots of pictures" was a common refrain found in many of the emails sent by friends and family in response to my announcing my travel plans.

For a while I was torn. Was deciding to make this a technology-free trip more romantic than practical? After turning this over for a while, I decided to stick to my plan. Here's why --

When I was on a ferry in the Cyclades, I was moved by a stunning sunset. As I instinctively went for my camera, I noticed that others around me were doing the same. Some even went up to the rail and started jockeying for what they felt to be best angle for a photo of the sun on the horizon of an open sea. Seeing this, I wondered what would be so special about my picture? What would make it unique given that there would be over 30 identical shots?

I realised that the only thing that would be unique is my memory -- the way in which I perceived that sunset would be different than anyone else's perception. Later, I would think back on how that serene moment would be in sharp contrast to the next as I went below deck and started piecing together a Greek newscast of the attack on the World Trade Center.

The beauty of it, is that these things may not have happened back to back, although I recall them that way -- but because I did not freeze that moment in time, my mind is free to rearrange reality in a poetic fashion. It's the difference between seeing something and making sense of it.

Also -- I can't take a picture without thinking about the audience. Even if this is myself at some point in the future. In doing so, I've immediately removed myself from the situation. I've changed my perspective from actor to observer. It's no longer "I'm watching the sunset," it's now "This was me watching the sunset."

On my trip around the world, I want to see and experience everything in the first person, through my own eyes -- not through a viewfinder.

LONDON
I should be packing, but instead I'm playing around, setting up this weblog.