IT BEGINS ANEW …

My quest to visit every country in the world resumed February 2nd.  At the start of this leg of that journey, the marker stands at 95 countries.  For those who have read previous posts on this blog, it should be obvious that my approach has been to minimize expenses and maximize opportunities by sequentially visiting proximate countries in geographic blocks.  It makes no sense to fly to a single country, and expend most of your hard-earned funds largely on airfare.  This round is to the Caribbean.  I expect to visit 20 or so islands/countries, over a period of 45 to 50 days.

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Four years ago, I entered Cuba on the sly, coming in from Cancun, thus bypassing all the legalities of having to file extensive paperwork and join an educational or religious group or cadre of government functionaries to justify my existence there.  Not necessary this time.  One of the best things President Obama has done (in an otherwise undistinguished record of accomplishment) was to open the door to Cuba for ordinary Americans to visit.  My thinking (if not his) is why would we do business with 1.3 billion Chinese, who are a helluva lot more Communist than the Cubans will ever be, when we don’t have diplomatic relations with 20 million non-threatening Cubanos 90 minutes from our shores?

My objective in attending to Cuba this go-round, is to see the three-quarters of the eastern portion of the country.  My previous travels had taken me from the fascinating confines of Havana (worth the trip all by itself) to the western reaches of the sylvan caves, tobacco fields, and world renowned grotto murals of Vialle de Vinales.

My initial flight in from Miami instead of Mexico reveals why there have been so many lost treasure ships lost to Spanish fleets oh so many years ago.  It would take a master navigator to avoid the countless sand bars, shallows, shoals, reefs, and cayes that are so obvious from the air.

The flight from Miami was a portent of things to come.  It departed 2.5 hours late, due to there being a change of planes and our plane being overloaded with fuel due to a longer trip being scheduled.  It took a great deal of time for the independent tanker contractors to arrive and take fuel out of the plane.  Once that was done, the ground crew could not be found to back the plane away from the terminal.  Apparently they had been advised the tanker crew would take much more time for their task, and departed to parts unknown for a siesta.

Upon arrival in Havana, there was the usual nonsense from taxi drivers.  I have actually learned to relish this experience, as most visitors just take the mentioned prices laying down and don’t bargain or refuse and walk on.  In this case, the taxi traffic director quoted me a price of $25 US dollars.  The number and denomination was clarified twice.  When I arrived at my Habana Viejo hostel location, however, the driver said “Oh no, Sir, that price is in CUC.  That is standard.  I can’t change it.”  And no matter how much I argued, he insisted in being paid in the official Cuban government currency which is forced on all tourists in order to guarantee they pay rapacious prices for transport, food, and entertainment relative to locals.  (More on CUC vs the peso local currency workers are paid in, later).

It became clear that they will mention the price in dollars, because it is lower, being artificially valued at .85 US dollars.  Therefore, a taxi ride of 25 CUC (short for Cuban Convertible Pesos) is actually about $28 US dollars, rounded.  By mentioning the 25, and cleverly using the same symbol for CUC ($) as for US dollars ($), the Cubans manage to initially make the price look lower, and then skim the difference.  So instead of creating a scene, I made sure the driver stuck around, unloaded all my luggage, answered travel questions, and made several calls on my behalf before paying for the ride and allowing him to take his leave.  As it ended up, he was a very nice man.  Like most Cubans, he had ample warmth and integrity, but was the pawn of a very inefficient and manipulative system.

Cuban food makes up for the nation’s transport deficiencies.  Immediately following arrival, it was out for a walkabout.  This is one of the surest ways to cure jetlag, after an all-night flight from Seattle and then final leg from Miami to Havana.  Just around the corner, I ran into the delightful Mar y Terra restaurant, just one block up from the Malecon – Havana’s famous waterfront boulevard and one of the grandest walking jaunts on earth.  At first I was shocked by the prices.  I saw $25 for a glass of lemonade!  But after some inquiry and renewal of my rusty Spanish, it came to me that price was in pesos – the generally off limits to tourists denomination that workers are paid in.  It was actually one US dollar.

Shops catering to tourists charge in CUC.  So do buses, airplanes, and trains (at least on tourist routes).  Some buses and trains charge virtual pennies for a ride, and will not allow tourists aboard due to the low pricing. Shops catering to locals will post prices in pesos. That rate is 25 pesos to 1 American dollar.  That is the currency the Cuban government does not want you to use, because if you find the right establishment where locals do business, you can eat and travel like a king.  And half of the outlay will not go to the Cuban government. So the lemonade was a dollar.  A complete meal consisting of rice, beans (those two are always included in any Cuban meal), salad, beef and the aforementioned lemonade cost $2.25 US.

A walk down the Malecon toward Habana Viejo (Old Havana) is always a pleasure.  In any weather, on any day, the visitor will always find lovers in various stages of embrace, fishermen, poets, artists, and photographers.  Waves coming in from the Gulf of Mexico crash against the coral breakwater and throw up an occasional surprise curtain of spray.  Along the path are architectural testimonials to what makes Havana uniquely Havana.  And that is, a wonderful colonial veneer testifying to an earlier era as a playground for gangsters and moguls.  This provides an occasional hint of renewal and optimism (fueled by a fresh generation of visitors due to the thaw in relations between Cuba and the US), with an overlay of crumbling decay and echoes of things well past.

 To the east along the waterfront, are the twin redoubts of El Morro Castillo and the artillery stronghold La Fortaleza.  In concert on opposite sides at the mouth of the Havana River, these twin fortresses brimming with ancient rusted cannons kept marauding French, English and Dutch invaders at bay for many years.  Other favorite spots always worth visiting are the Revolutionary Museum, the Opera House, the Ambos Mundo Hotel (Ernest Hemingway’s writing desk and sleep quarters are on the fifth floor).  Also the La Floridita Bar – said to be his favorite watering hole, where “Papa” allegedly drank up to 15 non-sweetened daiquiris daily.  How did we ever get “The Old Man And The Sea” and “The Sun Also Rises” with that going on?

Despite vast improvements in internet access compared to my last visit to Havana four years ago, there is little or no open web access in Havana.  You have to go to a wi-fi hot spot, buy a card (always limited availability), and hope for the best.  My first night in Havana is not my night for such luck.  This is poison to a writer.  When you have a new adventure every day, no matter how furiously you take notes, the immediacy is lost to you if you can’t get memories and correct names and spellings computerized that night.  Thus, tavern owners all over the planet complain bitterly about my selfish nesting instincts, preferring to stay in my room and write rather than sharing good cheer with fellow travelers.

In my last trip to Havana, I met a young man named Barbaro Gonzalez.  At first, I thought he and his cohorts were going to mug me.  But he plaintively asked me:  “Sir, what is really going on in the world?”  We became fast friends at that point, as I described the world situation that had been hidden from him.  He has since learned via regular internet access what takes place on our planet, and even moved to Argentina for a higher paying job.  In his absence, I had a chance to visit with his extended family.  They live in one of the poorest sections of Havana, with approximately a dozen people living in a five-room apartment.

As we drank beer and traded Barbaro stories in poor Spanish and worse English, for a time I forgot our differences.  Those were largely the opportunities afforded me as an American and a world traveler, mixing it up with lively Cubanos who had never left Havana.  For one of those brief shining moments (four hours), we had beer, toasts, dancing, laughter, smiles, embraces, and then difficulty in parting.  My parting gift to Barbaro’s mother Reina was a crisp $100 Yankee greenback, which is nearly a year’s salary to many Cubans.  I left with some regret, yet having fulfilled my promise to my young friend to take care of his mother in his absence.

The next morning, I attempt to take the bus Via Azul – where you have to pay in tourist CUC – to the mid-Cuba city of Trinidad.  No go, bus full until the next day.  So I linked up in the parking lot with another frequent traveler, Max, and his 87 year-old Italian grandfather on a coche particular (private car out for hire) to make the journey.  The price for my share was $80, which far exceeds the cost of a bus ticket, but as I have written previously – what is the price of a day, stuck in a place you have already seen and know well?  And the journey is shortened to four hours without stops, not eight.

One of the particular delights of staying in hostels or sharing a coche particular is trading travel stories, travel tips, and sometimes exaggerated adventures.  As it turns out, Max is a Swedish freestyle traveler also (traveling without plans or reservations, except for occasional airline legs).  He tends to linger more than I in most places, and stops to work and refresh his bank account.  We part company in Trinidad with promises to keep in touch, and his offer of using his base in Stockholm as a stopover when next in Scandanavia.

As is the custom in third world countries, the train does not leave for my fly-out point at Santiago de Cuba from Trinidad as advertised.  That takes place at Sancti Spiritus, 68 kilometers away.  This requires another coche particular at added expense.  Of course upon arrival in Sancti Spiritus, I learn the train does not depart from there, either.  More bad information.  My driver Rolando – a most generous man – made a phone call on my behalf and we learn the train takes off from Guayos, about 15 kilometers distance.  We agree to meet later that night, so I can get a meal and use the internet in town.

Coming off the bus in Sancti Spiritus, I am desperate to use the bathroom.  I enter the station, and as customary in the US, simply head for the door.  Suddenly a woman is shrieking at me.  She attempts to block my path.  I walk past her, and she grabs me.  We have substantial language differences.  She reaches her hand out … apparently for money.  I told her “No!”  I walk past her anyway, and she grabs me again, and clutches me all the way into the men’s urinal.  She then calls for the police.  She and the bemused policeman make it clear a peso is needed (costing (approximately four cents) to use the john.  They don’t have pesos in tourist CUC fractions, however.

 “Can’t you wait until I am done?” I asked in passable Spanish.  “I have no proper change.”  The woman clutched at my arm, and tried to drag me out of the bathroom, despite me being twice her size.  The policeman said: “You can always get change.”  And then pointed to the ticket window, where a long line appeared to me as if a cruel joke was being played out.  Luckily, a Cuban man watching the whole exchange reached into his pocket and paid the single peso for me, about five seconds before my bladder nearly exploded.

Part of the time awaiting Rolando’s return was spent accessing the internet.  I was able to do this with the help of another inquisitive Cuban, Reinier Fernando Romero Hernandez.  I met him in the primary public square at Sancti Spiritus, asking where the wi-fi hot spots were.  He turned out to be an English teacher, looking to perfect his second tongue.  He also wanted to know some “usual phrases” that might be catchy, current, relevant, or useful.  I had little to offer.  “Most of what I know that you would remember isn’t everyday conversation,” I told him.  “They are mostly insults.”  He was not dissuaded.  So I armed him with such gems as “Your ass sucks wind” and “if your IQ could even be measured it would surely be less than your age.”

Reiner told me of his own travel plans, and his admiration for my goal to reach every country in the world.  I pointed out to him there were tradeoffs to fulfill such a goal.  These include living simply, not accumulating … stuff … and being willing to do what others won’t – particularly working two or more jobs, working past midnight, working weekends, and giving up time with significant others.  “Being able to travel well involves a direct price, sure” I told him.  That part you can predict and budget for.  But it also involves a cost.  Most can’t or won’t pay the cost.”

Rolando picked me up at 10 pm, continuing my ordeal to find an outlet to Santiago de Cuba.  We arrive in Guayos without incident.  This train does run to Santiago de Cuba.  Huzzah! However, on this date and on my stop as it comes through at 1:30 am, it will be full of military.  I am not allowed to board.  Again.  We all look at each other, unable to explain what has happened, or why, and what the alternatives are.

Luckily for me the Cubans train personnel abandon their ticket selling and work overtime to find a solution.  They are wonderful people, not the least lacking in earnestness or the desire to be of assistance without needing a reward in return.  Rolando and the train staff finally find a Via Azul bus, passing through Sancti Spiritus at 1:30 in the morning.  We rush back, he loads me up and walks me through the ticketing process (after the unexpected delight of a quick stopover to introduce me at his home to his wife and newborn son).  Eleven hours later, I am finally in Santiago de Cuba.  It has been nearly a 28 hour travel day.

Santiago de Cuba has the reputation of being the “blackest” of Cuba’s major cities.  This is due to its historic concentration of slaves at nearby sugar cane fields, and the percentage of escaped slaves who made their way here from other islands.  The number of horse-drawn carts in town and nearby still being used for primary transportation is surprising.  Santiago de Cuba has a fine historic colonial district, well worth a wander on most occasions.  But sometimes the odds catch up to you.  Probably due to taking ice in my bottled water and drinks (and perhaps due to water used to irrigate salads and sauces), I succumb to a combination of Montezuma’s revenge, bus cramps, dehydration, and fatigue.  The whole night is sadly spent sleeping -- despite a beautiful view, a warm hostess and a rare opportunity thus far to write.  At least I have met my departure deadline and am in a position to fly out of Cuba, one of the rare set pieces of my 50-day freestyle itinerary.

AT LONG LAST, A DELAYED ACCOUNT OF THE ACCLAIMED KRUGER NATIONAL PARK – HOME OF ‘THE BIG 5’

The South African town of Nelspruit is neatly tucked into a crease of northeast South Africa that sits just about Swaziland.  It is the hub for tourists bound for the southern border of Mozambique, and the internationally acclaimed game reserve of Kruger National Park (about 55 kilometers away).

I arrived greatly looking forward to my long-planned  meetup on March 27^th (2014) with my world travel mentor, a US citizen and a man we shall now simply call “He That Won’t Be Named” (henceforth, HTWBN).  Our months of planning and meetings generated high expectations for what was hoped would be four glorious safari buddy days together in Kruger.

This is a rendezvous I had been looking forward to for eight months.  One objective of going to Africa extensively in the first place was to accompany HTWBN to the last of two places he needed to visit all 196 ‘countries’ in the United Nations’ official list of members.  This list completion at my urging was to take place in later visits to South Sudan, and The Central African Republic.

Before long, I confront the reality that he and I will travel to these two countries separately.  For, as I would soon discover, my would-be travel partner can’t be pinned down to any particular plan.  At first I attribute this to the tragic loss of his wife Anne (his partner of 26 years) two months prior.  Or perhaps to his being a little woozy, from having hit his head on an overhead air conditioner in the hour before I arrived at the Bavarian Inn in Nelspruit to join him.

But mostly, the situation can be attributed to the fact HTWBN holds cards tighter to his vest than Wild Bill Hickock playing the Dead Man’s Hand in his final seconds in 1876 South Dakota.  He is, in short, a control addict.  Not taking pains to hide his usual distinction to dominate any agenda, he makes clear immediately things must be his way, even when not occurring on his turf.  Otherwise his badgering can grow to the unconscionable.

This character trait was not altogether new.  I’d met him three years earlier on isolated Easter Island in the South Pacific.   He was much more affable early on.  He was quicker to laugh, capable of appreciation, and capable of a grudging compliment now and then.  He was one who could enjoy the repartee of give and take, trade mutual barbs, but most of all engage in rousing discussions about how and where to find the most interesting spots on the planet.

That changed however once we started visiting regularly back in the States.  To my surprise he could now be rude on a whim, very insensitive, and arrogant (I attributed that to the pride one gleans from having visited nearly every country on earth, and then some).  But what I found most troubling was his need to hijack any topic that did not please him and crudely steer it to a new conversation topic of his choosing.  Listening was not part of his skill set.  He would be suddenly dismissive and just for the sake of playing devil’s advocate, argumentative.  He wanted to be at the helm of the boat at all times.

This did not prevent me from wanting to stay in the loop still and maintain an appreciation for HTWBN at times prior to our departure for Africa.  He displayed his occasional charm and and intelligence, and never ceased to surprise me with his knowledge of plants, constellations, foreign foods, towns, transport means, and travel routes.  Most of all, I appreciated him for being a great raconteur.  The man was a Grade-A storyteller.  I could probably write another travel book based merely on things this man had already forgotten.  It was fair to say I had a cautious but sincere affection for him.

Perhaps it was Anne’s missing presence that now gave him such an edge.  She had humanized him, ignoring his sharper points, lovingly talking past him when he got too critical or controlling.  She provided the necessary warmth and affection to mitigate his need to always be right.  She could counterbalance an argument, often joining my side on issues dear to me, to the point that even he appreciated the artful arrangement of the tag- team arrayed against him.  I tried mightily to give him the benefit of the doubt for current tensions in the absence of her compromise-inducing grace.

One of our initial joint tasks was to go food shopping.  Kruger offers a number of dining options, but the in-park restaurants are fairly expensive.  Taking your own grub and preparing it in-house is the best solution, especially if you arrive after hours from a hard day of four wheeling in search of game.  A travel companion and I put $25 into first-day groceries.  HTWBN contributed a can of beans, two tomatoes, and a can of tinned beef he’d found on sale at an economy food outlet on the way in. He then took half the newly combined food to the trunk of his car.

I was used to this penurious stance.  When we met, he generally required that I would bring my own alcohol to our planned visits.  “You’ll have to come up for the world’s best tequila,” he would often say when inviting me over for planning sessions.  Then fail to provide the liquor.  On another occasion, he offered to treat me for lunch.  He handed me a magazine coupon for $5.39 worth of tacos.  “Anything over this you pay for yourself,” he announced.  “And whatever you drink is on you.”

I had tried to arrange for the two of us to ride in one rental car during our four days in Kruger.  That would mean that one of us could turn their car in early, and save money.  Even better would be a splitting of the cost, in the same way we had split the cost of the lodges for our four nights there.  HTWBN would have none of it.  The potential loss of control was too daunting for him.  So we paid separate vehicle fees and duplicated fuel expense, and entered the park in two different cars at the southwest Numbi Gate.

That part having been decided, it was time to visit the world-renowned Kruger National Park – a park that offers a wildlife experience that ranks among the best in the world.

The park was established in 1898 to protect the wildlife of the South African lowlands (lowveld). Covering some 5 million acres of South Africa National Parks, Kruger is unrivalled in the diversity of its life forms and a world leader in advanced environmental management techniques.  It is also more affordable than most game parks.

As the flagship of the South African National Parks, Kruger is home to an impressive number of species, including: 336 trees, 49 fish, 34 amphibians, 114 reptiles, 507 birds and 147 mammals.  Man's interaction with this lowveld bush environment over many centuries -- from bushman rock paintings to 300 stone aged archaeological sites like Masorini Hill  -- is very evident in Kruger. These treasures represent the cultures, people and milestones that played a role in the history of the park and are preserved along with its botanical assets.

Our two vehicles quickly lose sight of each other within a few miles of entering the park.  I had assumed HTWBN would lead (he having been in the park previously), and was not sure which way to go for the best game viewing despite having a map in hand.  I knew only that by late afternoon I needed to be at Skakuza Camp, about 120 kilometers distant.  You must be within the camp enclosures by dusk, as the only assured means of protection against predatory animals such as roaming lions.  With what information was available, I chose to immediately head north on a side road to get the greatest chance of wildlife sighting away from the main H1-1 paved road.

The sightings did not disappoint.  I remember immediately being treated to a herd of leaping impala, some of them nearly gracing the hood of my car in the process.  Their sentries seemed to be very wary, very alert while the bulk of the herd fed and rested nearby.  They were not particularly wary of the sight of the car.  The sudden sound of the vehicle accelerating is what spooked them the most.  I have them locked in memory, freeze-framed in midair in their irregular bounding leaps over both the car and each other.

Giraffes were also very much in evidence.  They do not hang at a distance and are not at all fearful of visitors.  They come right up to the road to eat from tall acacia trees not yet denuded of leaves.  At times, you have to wait a few minutes to let them dine, and move on.  They are surprisingly affectionate creatures.  Upon review, I find most of my photos of them involve nuzzling, romantic cheek-to-cheek poses, and frequent side-to-side rubbing.

These graceful loping creatures are amazingly resistant to attack.  They co-exist easily with elephants and appear to fit in effortlessly with all animals. Lions, despite being able to take down even elephants when starving, must be careful how and when to attack a giraffe.  They need to attack in force (usually catching them in the dark, or while sleeping, by wounding the carotid artery in the neck).  A well placed kick from a giraffe will permanently disable a lion attacking from the wrong angle with a single blow.

Battles between old and young giraffes during the rut can also be an amazing encounter.  The young ones, of course, have energy and stamina.  The older ones are cunning and have superior years as survivors.  Younger males will attempt to wear an older adversary out with frequent head butts, or violent arching snaps of neck and head into the exposed necks of their opponent.  Watching this is the sidelong version of watching two bighorn sheep ram each other repeatedly head to head.  Older males, on the other hand, tend to swing their neck and head downward at the last second into shoulder and even knee joints.  The youthful but unschooled male limps away humbled almost every time.

Also on this first day in Kruger fellow visitors and I were frequently able to witness darting bands of warthogs with their razor sharp tusks, and herds of muscular but fairly placid Cape Water Buffaloes.  We also watched ever screeching baboons with their memorable inflamed pink bums go wherever they want -- as long as they are within easy reach of trees.   The highlight of the day, though, was seeing an endangered black rhino, so close at twenty-five feet that I can practically see my own image in its eyes.  Its huge curving horn is pointed directly at the car and a large question mark nearly masks my reflection:  “To charge, or not to charge?”

Skukuza Lodge is situated on the southern banks of the Sabie River, only a few kilometers inside the park’s western edge, and is one of the most accessible camps in Kruger National Park. The camp is well-foliated with many lofty trees along the river's edge.  Activities and facilities are quite diverse.  I run into HTWBN at the camp registration building.  We discover that even with advance reservations, the check-in procedure is rather tedious.

A pattern which often repeats itself in Africa is the lack of interface between paper forms and computer data online and how it necessitates lengthy delays.  Add to that a personnel shortage – with several employees appearing to linger within sight during breaks – and the frustration grows.  Most endure this gracefully.  After all, “This is Africa.”  Not HTWBN.  He took great pains to complain loudly and at length.  The one clerk who attempted to handle our cabin booking took the brunt of his aggression. He went so far as to shout out personalized insults at the shocked clerk.  The poor girl was nearly brought to tears.

The moment is only softened a bit when in the course of walking away I noticed a sign above the greeting/check-in desk that originally read “reception rates.” It had been scratched out and modified to read “deception rates.”

The evening meal marked the beginning of three full days of tension of not knowing if we would eat together, or dine alone.  Theoretically this was arranged in the morning, but did not guarantee HTWBN would stick to the plan.  For both breakfast and dinner (lunches were away while on day-trip game searches) there was always some sort of change.  This might involve a choice of food, whether to cook together or prepare meals singly, or deciding to dine out. When it came to purchased food the situation evolved into “what’s mine is mine and what’s yours is ours.”  I will leave it to the reader to decide whose benefit that development favored.

The man was seasoned at looking after his own needs and this was evidenced by HTWBN’s practice – no, need really – to always arrive at camp first.  This maneuver enabled him to pick the best bed, the best perches for drying clothes, hog the electrical outlets, dominate the kitchen with his layout, and the ‘right’ to choose when to shower (and use the bulk of the hot water).  It also provided the opportunity to snatch the closest parking place.  His selfiishness would then proceed to drinking all of the liquor that had endlessly been intimated would be shared.

Adding to my frustration with his overall stinginess were several situations, beginning on day one, when HTWBN stole items from the camps.  The man was a millionaire (and explained away his unexpected kleptomania by saying his Dad had gone through the Depression and passed on the frugality habit) and yet stole salt and pepper shakers, and a cabin frying pan.  I found the only antidote to my growing disappointment was to maximize time spent apart during the day, and to seek out company with other campers.

On the way in to the next camp on the second day in Kruger I encounter more giraffes, elephants, rhinos and a few springboks.  There was a slight hint of disappointment in the air however: what everybody really wanted to see though was The King of Beasts.  No lions were present.  At least on my complicated route.

Which brings to mind an amusing game prevalent when one seeks to find a particular animal and does not find it -- the rumor.  How do visitors compensate for not seeing their big game of choice? By parking in droves, two to three deep by the roadside, at what appears to be a sure lion, cheetah, leopard or other ‘Big Five’ game sighting.  There is much excited finger pointing and rapid adjustment of field glasses.

The further you are from the crosshairs of this frenzy, the more detailed the description.  “Lions, five of ‘em mate, not twenty-five yards off, just before the tall grass.  Two of ‘em are cubs!”  And yet when you arrive there are no lions.  Just a tail waving languidly in the tall grass bending with the breeze.  Usually the marshy version of a cat tail …

Which brings us to a reverse perspective.  How do animals look at us?  It is an interesting thought to ponder.  Do they size us up for a quick get-away?  Or a quick meal? What type of classification do they stratify us by?  The big silver ones with the throaty diesel roar, or the more catchable little white ones with round black paws and a four-cylinder whine?

Lions, for example, perceive us as rhino sized or larger (as long as you don’t lean too far out of your vehicle).  Stand up or separate yourself from the shadow and mass of the vehicle though … and you potentially become lunch.  I didn’t see many try this. 

Day two provided more routefinding challenges than the previous day’s driving.  I recall how tricky it was navigating multiple roads leading to Olifants Camp.  The park provided maps that were not to scale, did not include all the loops and intersections, and were barely indicative of what could be expected.  This led to very late arrivals at times.  It struck me how difficult it could be getting a flat tire near dusk in one of the more isolated backroad loops.  With poor light and generally dangerous conditions outside, one could really be in a pinch until rescue arrived the next morning.  You simply do not leave the car, certainly not long enough or with the exposure necessary to fix a tire.

Olifants Camp (whose name origin ought to be obvious) is situated atop a sweeping bluff, which looms several hundred feet over the Olifants River. Views from the lookout platforms perched on the bluff allow one to see the broad river below at a shallow crossing point where it curves around to the horizon.  Those armed with decent binoculars can easily spot elephants, hippos, Nile Crocodiles, and Martial Eagles.  Most people opt to just linger.  It is a perfect spot to relax, and as many choose – to hold hands, snuggle, talk softly, and sip something tall and cool.

After settling in at Olifants and hurrying through dinner due to continued discomfort with HTWBN, a small group of us treated ourselves to a night safari. We saw few critters.  We sighted primarily impalas again, and were pleased to catch unexpected views of hippo and rhino groupings.  We were visited by an owl that constantly postured in front of the bus, and a rare spotted leopard that dashed past us almost too quickly to raise cameras grabbed our momentary attention.  It was the robust stars unfettered by city lights that was most memorable, however.  The glittered inky night skies of Africa are a very special treat indeed.

On the morning of the third day in Kruger, just prior to heading further north, I am entertained by a quartet of park employees re-thatching several of the beehive cabin roofs.  This observation of their labors had a pleasing, hypnotic influence on me.  It was comforting to see that these traditional skills had not been lost and could still be utilized, not only for visitors but for locals should the need ever arise to fall back on inexpensive and locally sourced housing.

Once back on the road, my very first sighting was of vulture clusters feeding on fresh impala carcasses.  Normally a vulture is not much to look at. But watching one maneuver into the wind and land like a leaf in a soft breeze amidst a mass of its quarrelsome brothers is a sight not soon to be forgotten.  The extension and definition of each individual feather during such landings in near slow-motion makes the sight enthralling.

My journey continued through typical lowveld two-meter scrub greenery, red dirt patches, muddy watering holes, acacia trees with their branches bare right up to giraffe height, dry riverbeds, and brownish sandy/rocky/dry plain.  Eventually I witnessed entire herds of Thompson Gazelles, wildebeests, zebras, deer, springboks, and elephants and was quite pleased the day did not disappoint.

A highlight of the third day’s journey was stopping at the Iron Age village and smelting site of Masorini Hill.  This cone shaped peak with its huge boulders provides a natural protective shelter, 12 kilometers from the Kruger middle-west entry at the Phalaborwa entrance gate.  This gate provides access to our next overnight stay, Mopani Camp, two thirds of the way up Kruger toward the Zimbabwe border.

Masorini Hill consists of a large modern picnic area with ancient stone walls, grinding stones, pot shards, and the remains of smelting retainers which produced iron, gold, and copper as far back as the Stone Age.  After some inquiry, I learn that the village huts were excavated and restored in 1973.  Findings from the area paint a picture of the means of production employed by a hunter-gatherer tribe -- of people known as the ba Phalaborwa.  Insight is gained into the type of construction materials they used, their social structure, their agricultural efforts, and the nature of their commerce with nearby tribes.

Successful excavations have exposed hut floor foundations and artifacts that provide detailed clues as to the Phalaborwa way of life. Dome shaped clay furnaces which still remain intact today were used to smelt iron ore and moulded into spears, arrowheads and farming tools. These items were then traded for glass beads, ivory, animal products and food between the ba Phalaborwa and the nearby Venda tribe to the North (and later the Portuguese to the east).

The bulk of the day was spent weaving and crisscrossing middle Kruger’s dusty clay and dirt backroads leading to Mopani Camp (named after trees in the veld that surrounds it).  This proves to be a pleasant and unhurried means of spotting zebra bands and herds of meandering elephants.  We travel aficionados regularly and continuously offer up praise in such situations in the form of endless bottled water toasts to the safari gods for the provision of modern vehicle air conditioning.  It was vengefully hot outside!

On the banks of the Pioneer Dam lies what may be Kruger’s best kept secret, the Mopani Rest Camp.  It is situated amidst tree clusters of the same name in an interesting design arrangement where vegetation inside the camp is left largely untouched and mimics wild vegetation found immediately outside, creating a rather unique atmosphere.  A signature feature of this design is a huge ancient gnarled baobab tree in the heart of the camp.

My favorite portions of Mopani are the generously appointed cabins, and an artificial lake created by Cooper dam that extends right up to the lower pilings of the restaurant and deli building.  From this vantage point, visitors can escape the heat, indulge in a brew, and dine slowly while watching African Fish Eagles circle above.  It is not unusual to enjoy the visits of hippos, who are known to swim nearly up to diners’ feet.  This is a highly recommended stay for those seeking a tranquil retreat.

I find myself avoiding all meals with HTWBN.  This conscious choice adds to rising tensions between the two of us.  Despite his ongoing ambiguity as to “will we or won’t we dine together,” he finds my response to his behavior annoying.  I continue to do my best to avoid him, knowing full well in my mind that my fourth and final day in the park starting the following morning will be spent without him.  I take up an outdoor conversation instead with a fascinating captain of industry on holiday from Capetown.

This gentleman is an Afrikaner, of Boer descent and Dutch through and through.  He had next to zero of the more liberal British slice of South African white in him.  We had a very enjoyable conversation on the outside patio where I chose to concentrate on being an attentive listener, learning the Afrikaner perspective on the question as to ‘whose country is this really?’  His take on it was, the Dutch settled the South Cape in the 1650s, long before blacks arrived en masse to take advantage of economic opportunities and homesteads created by whites (much of the same argument is made by Jews in the arguments relative to Palestine and that same issue of “whose land is this, anyway?”).

Suddenly the lights go out in the middle of our conversation.  “It’s my bedtime.  You have talked long enough,” growled HTWBN.  He controlled the patio light switch from inside and hovered near it to enforce his preferences.  I complained, briefly passing through his room on the way to mine.  He was unmoved.  “You’re too loud.  I don’t want to listen to your crap anymore,” he sniped.

This was an unacceptable level of rudeness. I reflected for a moment at how quickly a bond can disintegrate, and so unilaterally as one of those mysteries of relational erosion.  But I’d had enough.  We brushed each other a little too closely as I returned to the outside to say goodbye and apologize to my guest.  Upon returning to my room, the conflict grew more heated.  In finally spoke up. “Shut your mouth, you miserable son of a bitch! I’ve had all from you I can stomach,” I bellowed. There was no ambiguity to my disaffection.

Needless to say, the situation ended badly.  When I awoke the next morning, furniture had been piled against my bedroom door so I could not leave.  I had to remove the bug screen and then window from inside my room to escape outside and reach my car.

As a result, I decided to forego a fourth day in Kruger, choosing instead to get to the rental car turn-in location at Polokwane (about two and one-half hours away to the southwest) to get an early start on Zimbabwe.  Reflecting on the prior evening and the sudden end of this streaky and puzzling relationship made for an interesting drive.  I hardly noticed the sights. I did notice upon arrival, that over 5000 kilometers had already been put on the vehicle in South Africa alone.

This ‘boots on the ground’ introduction to Africa had only scratched the surface.  This journey of mine was to reach well beyond 16,000 kilometers by all means of ground transport by the time I transited through 16 additional African countries two months later, ending in a flight from Cairo to the tip of the Sinai Peninsula at Sharm el Sheikh. This number only jump started yet-to-be-added mileage in Jordan, Israel, Turkey, Dubai, Nepal and six nations of East Asia which still lay on the trip horizon.

NORTH KOREA – BEYOND  THE CHARADE TO THE TRULY IMPRESSIVE

Once beyond the  endless showcasing and street theater charades, there are some things to be said about the more impressive aspects of North Korea (beyond its obvious political and agricultural and human rights shortcomings).  This is a nation that, despite its 80% mountainous topography, would undoubtedly be one of the world’s economic overachievers were it not for so much repression and lack of reward for individual production.  Too much of its resources go into the military and into patriotic show projects or honorariums to the Kims for this to occur.

Among those to be discussed are Rungnado May Day Stadium (the world’s largest), its related Arirang Festival, the Pyongyang Arch of Triumph, Mansudae Hill – scene of an entire phalanx of notable monuments, including the memorable Kimsusan Memorial Palace – the Juche Tower, Unification Arch, and North Korean side of the demilitarized zone (DMZ) which separates North and South Korea roughly at the 38^th Parallel.

Arch of Triumph -- Built in 1982 on Triumph Return Square in Pyongyang, the monument was built to glorify President Kim Il-sung’s unlikely single handed leadership role in guerilla resistance against the Japanese which led to Korean independence.  Like the Juche Tower, this combination of Asian and Roman styled victory arch was inaugurated on the occasion of his 70th birthday.

The structure is modeled after the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, but is 10 meters taller (the world’s tallest triumphal arch and continuation of a distinct North Korean practice, until it was supplanted by a competitor in Mexico). This arch has multiple interior rooms, balustrades, observation platforms and elevators. It also has four lofty vaulted gateways 27 meters high. Prominently inscribed in the arch are the years 1925 and 1945, when North Korea claims Kim set out to liberate the country from Japanese rule and later achieved this end.

An inscription on the monument reveals the purpose of the Arch of Triumph quite well:

“The stone monument was unveiled in April of Juche 71 (1982) in reflection of the deep desire of thewhole Korean people to convey to the posterity the revolutionary feats of President Kim Il-sung, who had successfully achieved the historic cause of the liberation of the country and returned to Pyongyang in triumph.  The Arch of Triumph encourages the Korean people to the efforts to shine the immortal exploits of the President in the liberation of the country through generations and build at an early date a great, prosperous and powerful nation of Juche …”

Rungnado May Day Stadium in Pyongyang is a 150,000 spectator multi-purpose stadium, making it the largest stadium by seating capacity and the 12^th largest sporting venue in the world. This truly impressive construct was completed on May 1, 1989. It is currently used for soccer matches, a few athletics matches, but most often for Arirang Festival performances, a huge spectacle of gymnastics, art and patriotic fervor honoring Kim Il-sung and the Korean nation. 

The stadium name comes from its moorings on Rungrado Islet in the Taedong River, and May Day (international Labor Day). Its scalloped clam shell roof features 16 arches arranged in a huge ring which tops out at more than 60 meters above ground. The stadium occupies over 207,000 square meters of floor space spread over eight levels.  Since everything else of note in North Korea is named after the “Great Leader” this venue is often confused with the nearby but much smaller 50,000 seat Kim Il-sung Stadium.

The stadium is not always the scene of theatrical national passions and mesmerizing synchronization.  A commercial event called Collision in Korea, the largest wrestling event ever, took place there in April of 1995 and had a record wrestling attendance of 190,000 on the final day.  Later in that decade, a number of North Korean army generals implicated in an assassination attempt on Kim Jong-Il were reportedly executed by incineration with flamethrowers in the stadium before a large captive audience.

The Arirang Festival (often referred to as the “Mass Games” or Patriotic Games) started in June of 2002.  It is held in Rungnado Stadium. The meticulously choreographed extravaganza of dancers, gymnasts and card flashing children (many of whom participate up to retirement age) began with 30,000 participants and grew eventually to over 100,000.  It was recently opened to foreigners. These games have become an annual feature in Pyongyang -- usually in August and September (though not in 2014). The Guinness Book of Records has recognized this event as the largest mass performance spectacle in the world.

Mansudae Grand Monument is a very impressive complex of memorials on Mansu Hill in Pyongyang dedicated once again to Kim Il-sung and Kim Jong-il and the notion of Socialist Revolutionary Progress.  The focal point of the monument is centered about two massive 22 meter bronze statues of the Kims.  Flanking the statues are two 50 meter long bronze and concrete arcades showing a procession of soldiers, workers, farmers, and teachers averaging 5 meters high each.  Each is posed in an anti-Japanese quest or demonstrating a Socialist Revolutionary spirit.

The colossal and grimly determined Soviet style statues were cast by Mansudae Projects, North Korea's government-run propaganda art factory.  The studio employs around 4,000 North Koreans at its Pyongyang headquarters. These artists produce detailed propaganda works, such as idyllic portraits of healthy farm workers, paintings of North Korea's glorious mountains, and numerous works in bronze.  All public images of Kim Jong-un, Kim Jong-il, and Kim Il-sung are the work of these artists.

The most impressive part of the Hill beyond the statues is Kimsusan Palace of The Sun, the final resting place of both Kims.  This marvelous marble clad mausoleum makes the memorials of such luminaries as Mao Zedong and Napolean and Joseph Stalin look like chicken coops.  The stately memorial was the former residence and office of “Great Leader” Kim Jong-il prior to his death in 1994.

There are no cameras allowed in the mausoleum – upon entering the building you are required to empty your pockets and give up all outer clothing and electronic equipment, including cameras.  A pat-down security check follows.  Then a long walk along a motorized conveyor of nearly half a kilometer provides unhurried viewing of the two Kims in various heroic stances, or collegial poses with other world leaders.

After what seems like an eternity viewing the Kims, more statues of the father and son pair await visitors in the palace entrance hall.  Here is the first set of required bows to the two leaders.  Moving up a floor, a large wind tunnel blows off any dust that may have accumulated between visitors and the street.  Eventually you reach the somber and dimly lit Memorial Hall, where the two leaders lie in state in a crystal sarcophagus in separate viewing rooms.  Each is eternally preserved through embalming and the type of wax preservation perfected by the Soviets for Stalin and Lenin. 

A set of three separate bows are required here – something you are not really told about much in advance.  Considering what we know of the Kims, this may be difficult to do for some westerners.  I am prepped somewhat in advance.   “You don’t have to consider it homage to the Kims,” my Koryo hosts and my Korean guides tell me.  “Look at it as respect for Korean customs, respect for the Korean people, and respect for this beautiful hall.”  I bow imperceptibly, gritting my teeth all the while, but desirous nevertheless of not drawing attention from the fully armed and very stone-faced guards standing nearby.

Perhaps the most insidious part of the required bowing is the fact you are filmed.  You know these films are then shown to DPRK citizens, and elsewhere throughout the world to the gullible.  The message is clear: “We have no regime problem.  We have no respect problem.  See these westerners engage their grief, and offer their respects?  How could you possibly accuse us of human rights violations when we are so well thought of.”

Outside is another wind tunnel for dust removal. Then on to the Hall of Lamentations.  Here demonstrations of grief sought from all over the world, are displayed for the benefit of visitors.  Another attempt once again, to trumpet alleged universal acceptance of this regime.  A woman at the entrance to the hall, chants passionately at first and then goes into peals of wailing about Kim’s magical effect on the transformation of the nation through his generosity and wisdom.  She cuts off suddenly completely dry-eyed, and resumes hysterically on cue 15 seconds later when another group appears.

Visits to the Memorial are required of all 24 million North Korean citizens, generally each five years (they are bused in en masse, even from distant villages).  I am struck by the genuine emotion (not all of it the impressionistic power of brainwashing and propaganda or from professional prompting) of citizens when viewing the two leaders, including children who were not even alive at the times of their deaths.

Our guides direct us next into a series of large rooms called “The Cabinet.”  Housed within are all the medals and honors and mementos that were presented to the Kims, both during their lifetimes and posthumously. These come from the DPRK and portions of the rest of the world – notably the formers members of the Soviet Union and tinhorn dictators in South America and Africa (the single honorarium from the US belongs to Kensington University, a paper diploma mill that was shut down by court order in 2003).  Notably absent are honorariums from western nations and democracies.

The final three rooms offer serious displays of the two Kims transport means.  That includes the train carriage for each (both were afraid to fly, and particularly Kim Jong-il).  It also includes electronically lit dot maps of their travels, their Mercedes limousines, a golf cart, personal effects such as Kim Jong-il’s oddly touted clothing collection, and his private yacht Chongsong.

The Chollima Statue, also located on Mansu Hill, is typical of the revolutionary/heroic style of the Mansudae Projects casting specialists.  This huge magnificent winged horse is said to represent the spirits of constant innovation and advancement which were especially emphasized in the reconstruction of Pyongyang.  This occurred after its near total destruction in 1950, following counterattacks by US and South Korean forces that briefly captured North Korea.

The Tower of The Juche Idea was opened on April 15, 1982 (Juche 70) and again to commemorate the birthday of President for Life Kil Il-sung … “so that his revolutionary exploits would be remembered for all ages.”  It measures 170 meters in total height.  The summit is topped with a 20 meter bright red metallic lit torch weighing 45 tons. The tower is a four-sided tapering spire containing 25,550 blocks -- one for each day of Kim Il-Sung's life.  It can be ascended by elevator, where visitors are treated to a 360 degree viewing platform just below the torch with sweeping views over all of Pyongyang.

The Juche idea is quoted as “the masters of the revolution and construction are the masses of the people and that they are also the motive force of the revolution and construction.  In other words, one is responsible for one’s own destiny and one also has  the capacity to shape one’s own destiny.  The Juche idea is the guiding idea of the Korean revolution evolved by President Kim Il-sung.  The Workers’ Party of Korea and the Government of the Republic head the revolution and construction, guided by the Juche idea.”  [ Frankly, I’d like to do street intverviews with locals about their confidence in being “masters of their own destiny” ].

At the tower’s base, there are reception rooms with videos explaining the tower's ideological importance. Overall design is assumed to be modeled after the Washington Monument (which it exceeds in height by less than a meter).  Perhaps focused only on the DPRK practice of one-upsmanship on a national level, designers apparently forgot the 173 meter San Jacinto Monument, dedicated to the “Heroes of the Battle of San Jacinto and all others who contributed to the independence of Texas."

Associated with the Juche tower is an amazing in its own right 30-meter statue consisting of three idealized figures each thrusting skyward typical symbolic tools of North Korean ideological lore – a hammer (the worker); a sickle (the peasant); and a writing brush (the working intellectual). There are in addition six “smaller” groups of figures, each 10 meters high that symbolize other aspects of Juche ideology -- Juche Industry, Bumper Harvest, The Land of Learning, Juche Art, Longevity, and Impregnable Fortress.

The North Korean Demilitarized Zone (DMZ) begins with a 2.5 hour trip south from Pyongyang along the optimistically named Reunification Highway.  A brief stop is arranged at the Reunification Arch, built in 2001 (known also as the Monument to the Three Point Charter For Reunification, named after a manifesto orated by Kim Sung-il in June of 1973 to end the partition of Korea into north and south).  The arch depicts two women clad in traditional Korean dress leaning toward each other, holding a globe with a map of a united Korea.  Under the DPRK vision this revamped nation would be called the “Democratic Federal Republic of Koryo.”

Kim’s three principals for reunification included the absence of outside interference in the reunification process, a peaceful transition, and fostering of national unity by transcending differences in ideas, ideal, and systems.  All quite reasonable on its face … until you get down to the sting of the details.  Kim never did explain how he would inspire South Koreans to give up their much higher standard of living, their personal freedoms, and the lack of want and fear in their lives in exchange for being able to see long-lost relatives on occasion.

Quite noticeable on the journey south is the absence of traffic.  I counted a grand total of seven cars along Reunification Highway on the way to Kaesong -- capital of a united Korea from 918 to 1392 and now an industrial city.  Most obvious was the complete absence of mechanization along the route.  Ill equipped, poorly clad workers in the fields labored completely by hand, occasionally supported by a beast of burden.  A diplomat friend traveling by train to China verified the same is true on the north end of the DPRK: grimy thin workers, most of them walking, and utilizing only hand tools.  Many children were also observed laboring in the fields.

Kaesong itself is notable for two things: a special status manufacturing complex where South Korean factories employ North Korean workers, whose day-to-day status can easily be determined by the weathervane of political cooperation between the two sides.  The other is the “show village” of Kijong-dong (detailed in my posts about South Korea).  Simply put, this is – like the Ryugyong Hotel, a village of show residences which are meant to convey to South Koreans that the north is equally well off economically, yet when examined closely proves to be yet another hollow shell bereft of occupants or life.

So, with my earlier posts providing much of the detail on the DMZ and its history, I will simply contrast what I found on the DPRK side with what was experienced in South Korea.  Amazingly, I found North Korea more accessible (one has to be screened three days in advance in South Korea to have access to the Peace Village of Panmunjeom).  It is clear that the DPRK is not at all worried about spooking South Koreans.  The South meanwhile, will not even allow flash photography at viewing terraces overlooking the DMZ for fear the north will take it for sniper activity and return fire.

The two nation’s strips of the 4 kilometer wide DMZ separate their visitors by days and blocks of time.  We were not able to overlap with visitors coming from the south.  That way North and South Korean citizens will not cross paths, and there will be no easy means of spycraft or information exchange taking place.  Our Koryo group visit to the Panmungak Hall, Armistice Building, and Military Commission Meeting Rooms within the northern portion of the strip were absent South Korean guards and personnel.

Unlike visiting South Korea’s portion of the strip, in North Korea our group was able to wander somewhat freely.  We were of course always within the purview of North Korean guards.  But there was no concern about offending South Korea.  The guards were much friendlier than expected.  There was the usual jingoism when reviewing a DMZ map about the imperialist and warlike nature of the United States – and how the US kept Korea from uniting -- but by this time the material was old and mainly induced yawns and quiet smiles.

We first rode in from Kaesong to the guard station and map room. Our passports are checked with great scrutiny.  Here the layout and borders of the DMZ and the buildings we will soon visit in Panmunjeom are explained.  We are not told about the four discovered tunnels witnessed to the south and built by the DPRK (of 17 suspected to exist) to bypass heavily mined or fortified ground areas above for the purpose of attacking South Korea by stealth.

We continue to Panmunjeom on raised roads passing through man made swamps (intended to keep potential massed armored attacks at bay).  Clever road barriers in the shape of huge concrete cylinders large enough to stop a tank were placed at many points above the roads, capable of being unleashed at any moment by gravity feed to block virtually all traffic.  Checkpoints and double rows of barbed wire also line the landscape.

Within full view to the west just outside the show village of Kijong-dong was what used to be the world’s largest flagpole at 160 meters.  This is really more of a tower though, so that Guinness now classifies world record flags as “unsupported poles.” This radio tower turned flagpole was meant to surpass South Korea’s nearby display of its flag, but is now only fourth largest in the world after poles in Saudi Arabia and Tajikstan and Azerbaijan.

We are shown the Joint Service Area (an 800 square meter military administrative reserve) Conference Rooms.  Here blue Quonset hut type buildings maintained by both sides are divided evenly down the middle by the Military Division Line (MDL).  This is the spot where the cessation of hostilities armistice was signed in 1953.  It is a thrill to set at that same green felt covered table where negotiations took place 64 years prior, and be able to circle the table and walk around to the south side without any intervention.  As noted previously, no South Korean guards or representatives are allowed during our time.

Military Commission meetings to discuss the 750+ acts of overt violence which have taken place inside the small JSA area (in addition to countless other DMZ wide ceasefire violations) since 1953 used to take place here.  But the meetings ended in March of 1991, after the US led United Nations Command (UNC) appointed a South Korean general as their commander.  North Korea refused to accept this and departed the table, since South Korea ironically had never been a signator to the original Armistice Agreement.

Just behind the blue conference buildings are pavilions constructed by the opposing sides.  Whatever is built by South Korea is matched by North Korea in a habitual “bigger and better” show of one upsmanship.  Hence the House of Freedom to the south, is mirrored by the Panmungak Hall in the north.  Here we get direct access to large photos of the war, maps, photos of key leaders and peace negotiators, a great territorial view, and the North Korean copy (under plexiglas) of the Armistice Agreement of July 27^th, 1953.

Returning from the DMZ, we are treated to a scrumptious 12-course meal of potatoes, cabbage, dumplings, pork, fish, tofu, cucumber, kimchi, ginseng, chicken, dog soup (yes, dog soup), rice, tea, and rice wine.  The portions – served in gold lidded painted ceramic bowls – are both plentiful and succulent.  We observe the slender waitresses surrounding us and note their occasional looks of longing, as ironically described earlier by my fellow writer Anjaly Thomas.  I particularly fall in love with the kimchi, which is otherworldly tasty and addictive.

The finale for our North Korea venture ends in an afternoon foray in to a public beer hall, one of our few chances to press the flesh with locals without encountering a scripted play of pre-selected actors pretending to be average Joes in spontaneous encounters.  This huge hall reminded me of Octoberfest in Bavaria.  Double decked carts of beer are wheeled continuously about by pretty attendants.  Six different brews are available.

No attempt is made to separate locals from visitors.  I do my very best to chat up some stained t-shirt factory locals for small talk, but the only common language is “thumbs up” and a “high five.”  Those encountered nevertheless break into huge smiles at my attempt.  We toast each other a few times with some giddiness.  I learn eventually their beer is subsidized by the government, they are entitled to roughly ten pints a week, and the cost to them is approximately 3 cents per pint.

Our group farewell dinner consists of delicious barbecued duck and imperialist, war mongering sized portions of liquor.  Endless toasts and reminiscing about the combined beauty and oddity of what we have seen over the previous four days is our preferred expression of “Single Hearted Unity.”  In between drinks, some of us reflect on what makes North Korea so odd.

For myself, I recalled there were no gas stations.  No individual homes in sight – only large, relatively ugly Soviet style concrete apartment blocks.  I did not see any pregnant women.  There were numerous impressive monuments, paid for by tens of thousands of starving people.  The military was hefty and disproportionate to population … but at what cost?  The “show locations” or performances were so transparent as to not be worthy of a seventh grade theater production.  The food was consistently fabulous (if it was only available to the locals).  The North Koreans in Pyongyang at least, were better dressed than expected.  There is no litter to be found, anywhere.

But the predominate sense is an obvious air of repression.  There is a glumness manifest everywhere, even in moments between the “make happy” performances.  Nobody is smiling, unless in the presence of a high level government or military leader.  Still, you can tell the locals want to engage.  They want to be part of the fabric of life.  They too want to know what a young man I befriended in Cuba who remains a contact asked me: “What is really going on in the world.”

You can see it in their eyes.  These folk are the same as everybody else on the planet.  They are warm inside. They want to express themselves.  They want to engage.  They want to dream.  They want to create. They want to be free.  They just have no idea who is looking over their shoulder, or what utterance today might be punishable at a later date.  You get warmth and feedback, but only to a point – then the nervous side glances begin which impart: “Who is watching?  How will this be interpreted?”

It reminds me of an account I read by a western writer who had snuck out in the middle of the night to report on the realities of the massive hollow shelled Ryugyong Hotel.  Upon returning to his room at the usual foreign lodgings in “Alcatraz” (the Yanggakdo Hotel) he was observed by a number of locals and soldiers – all of whom would have known he was not supposed to be out unattended.  They all looked the other way.

Better to “know nothing” as the affable Sergeant Schulz used to say on the seventies TV series Hogan’s Heroes, than to invite trouble.  One can easily imagine endless questions from security personnel about:  How and why did you see this man?  What is your previous connection with him? What did he say to you? Who else did he talk with? and similar in-depth probing to discomfiting lengths one can expect in a fear based totalitarian society.