Back from South Africa! (WARNING: FRICKIN LONG and PICTURE-HEAVY)

For those that don't know, I'm back from South Africa.  I actually got back last Tuesday evening, but I've since been re-settling and doing shit, such as finding my cat, recovering from jet lag, uploading all 2938579127349283 pictures I took while abroad, procrastinating on writing this massive post for you guys, etc.  A lot of stuff happened, and I’m sure you have a limited amount of patience and/or giving a shit, so you might want to just scroll to the pictures or watch the video blog.

INTRO:
After far more flying than I would have liked, I arrived in Port Elizabeth, South Africa on the afternoon of September 29th, along with most everyone else.  There were 15 students total, 10 female and 5 male, most of them from California but a few of us (like me) from other places around the states, and one from Canada (which we always had to mention when introducing ourselves as a group.  “Oh, right, and one Canadian,” we’d say with a touch of loving disdain).  We then immediately left the city and drove a few hours into the Great Fish River Reserve, a temporary home for the next 6 weeks which we would grow to love and hate.  The place we stayed at was a converted farmhouse, which turned out to be a pretty sweet setup, much nicer than we all expected.  There were beds, for one thing.  Pretty much all of us were prepared for backpacking and a lot of camping, but we ended up spending most of our nights in beds.  I was in a room with four other girls, and we were lucky to have the room with the connected bathroom.  The house's power came from a generator in the barn, which was turned on at about 6pm and off at 10pm, which became our bedtime.  We had hot water for showers at some point after dinner (whenever Peter, our instructor, randomly decided to turn it on).  Water came from the rain, and was heavily chlorinated so that we wouldn’t get sick.  It tasted like a swimming pool.  Laundry was done at a laundromat in town, which, unfortunately, was about an hour away, and we only went to maybe four times.  We took turns cooking dinner for everyone in small groups, and cleaning up afterward.  For breakfast, every single day, every SINGLE GODDAMN DAY, we had yogurt and muesli.  Sometimes, when we had nothing scheduled for the morning, we would try something fancy like french toast, but that rarely happened.  Lunch was usually sandwiches, since we typically had to take it with us places.

The house was placed at the top of a hill with a great view of surrounding hills and the nearest town, Grahamstown.  The house was a great place to interact with nature, but unfortunately, once we were familiar with all the surrounding trails we became kind of desperate for entertainment.  Thank God for playing cards and books.  I read seven novels while I was there.  I am also grateful for alcohol being relatively inexpensive.  Many of us became alcoholic, over-eating chain-smokers for lack of anything better to do.  See, we would wake up early and go out and do things all day, but Peter was insistent on getting us back to the house by 4pm, with nothing left to do until bedtime except wait for dinner.  Sometimes he would even cut us off before we were finished doing whatever we were doing, just so we could get back for NOTHING.  It got to be kind of a joke.  At first we joked that Peter was coming back for a set nap time every day, since he would immediately disappear for a few hours or "go down to the office" (which was elsewhere on the reserve).  Or maybe he wanted to be back for 4:20 to smoke a fat bowl, har har.  But eventually, as we became more familiar with his antics, the 4:20 idea made more and more sense.

I think I was one of the few students who didn't grow to hate him.  He definitely pissed me off at times, but he wasn't that bad, keeping in mind he was a jaded, 72-year old with severe tremors who, year after year, is charged with caring for and instructing a group of ~15 college kids out into the middle of nowhere for six weeks.  I think perhaps his lack of popularity came from his father-like restrictions: bedtime at 10pm, no alcohol or drugs, no going places alone, etc.  Kind of reasonable, really, but some of the others complained that we were being treated like children.  This may be because, in my perspective, we frequently behaved like children.  In any case, most people didn’t like it, but I didn’t really give much of a shit because partying wasn’t very crucial to a positive experience in South Africa.  (Although it was definitely fun.  Because we partied anyway, of course, despite the rules.)

One thing I definitely did not appreciate was his jarring way of waking us up. “LET’S GO,” he’d shout and clap while pacing down the hall, sometimes going outside to honk the horn on the car.  “Is he seriously honking the horn?” my roommates and I sleepily asked each other the first time it happened.  “Is there a fire or something?  Why can’t he just knock on our doors?”  Although later, when he would knock on our doors to wake one of us up for our turn on the microlight, it wasn’t any more pleasant.  You could hear the knock from half a mile away, I’m sure, and he would yell your name.  Then he would yell it again, because he was hard of hearing and wouldn’t hear your response the first time.  Everyone else knew when you went up in the microlight, because they would hear Peter yelling your name.  In the second-to-last week, Peter’s wife Lesley, joined us, and at one point told us she was surprised by Peter’s behavior.  “He never yells,” she says.  “Once he tried the horn-honking with me, but I was absolutely furious and he never did it again.  At least he doesn’t wake you up like he did our children, with cold water.”  Yeah, well, there’s at least that.

I don’t miss Peter’s driving, either.  Now, I’m sure he had good reasons for abruptly stopping, as well as suddenly jerking into first gear.  But I haven’t the foggiest idea what they were.  Let me first tell you that we commonly rode around the reserve in a vehicle called a “bakkie”, which was basically a pickup truck with metal bars around the perimeter to keep us from flying out. We would stand in the back of it, which proved for fun times on the terribly bumpy, dirt, potholed roads we rode on. 

These roads were hard to drive on, I’m sure, but when other students drove it, they did a far better job.  I wouldn’t be surprised if he was just fucking with us.  For example, we’d be bouncing along, and all of a sudden the car would screech to a halt, and we’d all fly into a pile against the front bars.  “Did we almost hit something?” We’d ask, looking in the road.  “Is there a rhino nearby?”  After seeing no visible reason for stopping, I would think, “Maybe he got a call on his cell.”  A few times this was the case.  But most of the time I found, peering into the window to see what was up, that he was just sitting there.  Doing nothing.  Then he’d suddenly gun it, and we’d fly backwards.

It could be that he was trying to remember where the hell he was.  Because he got lost a lot.  Like, all the time.  Every time there was a fork in the road, he’d take the wrong one.  “I bet we were supposed to go the other way,” someone would say.  Sure enough, five minutes later, he’d pull over.  “I took a wrong turn somewhere,” he’d explain.  This, I feel, he had absolutely no excuse for.  By now he should know the reserve like the back of his hand.  One time we spent a few days in the Guquka villages that he’s done research in for the past seven years.  Every time we drove to the village, he would miss the turnoff.  “Is he going to do it again?  Is he – NO, PETER. TURN AROUND, IT WAS BACK THERE. HOW MANY TIMES HAVE YOU BEEN TO THIS FUCKING PLACE?”

At least there were ample opportunities to be passengers to a few student drivers that seemed more capable, which also provided for fun times.  One of my favorite driving memories, which doesn’t actually really have to do with the driver because it could have happened to anyone, was when we ran over a snake.  “That’s a weird stick in the road,” I was thinking to myself as we approached it.  “SNAKE,” Patrick yelled.  The car didn’t stop fast enough.  We ran over its head.  We all got out of the car and watched the rest of its body flail around and gradually die.  We later identified it as a Cape Cobra.  Which is as venomous as the Black Mamba.  Peter collected the corpse and confirmed it, and was pretty pissed.  Oops.

There were a variety of pretty awesome animals in South Africa, which is, you know, the whole fucking reason I went.  On the reserve, there were (most notably) black rhinos, red hartebeest, kudu, eland, warthogs (which are EVERYWHERE) and ostriches.

Ostriches are apparently all retarded.  As an example (one of an endless amount to draw upon): We would be driving along and spot one on the side of the road.  It would spot us, too, and panic, and run in front of the car.  Perhaps it just liked the thrill of being chased, a thrill which, apparently, took a long time to wear off, because they’d run in front of us for a really long time before deciding to veer off into the bushes (and sometimes veer back into the road again).  I’m really surprised we didn’t hit one, accidentally or on purpose.  I have yet to meet a single person who, upon the mention of ostriches, didn’t make some comment like “Ostriches.  What stupid creatures."

We also saw a lot of __bok.  There is a crazy amount of antelope-like species whose names end in “bok” or “buck” or both interchangeably.  If you see something bounding along that isn’t a hartebeest, kudu, or eland (which are all incredibly easy to identify after you’ve seen them for a few days), there’s a pretty good chance it’s a __bok.

And tortoises!  We saw a good amount of those, and they delighted me to no end.  I've seen tortoises before, but for some reason it was these ones that made me realize what truly bizarre, prehistoric creatures they are.  The first time I was actually up close with one, it was in the road and wouldn't move, so I got out of the car to physically move it aside.  When I approached, it, of course, withdrew into its shell and made this terrifying, dinosaur-like hissing sound that made me jump.  After I moved it aside and got back in the car, I told Peter "It hissed at me!" and he explained "Oh, that's all the air escaping from inside."  Weeeeeird/Cool.

We found the shells of deceased ones scattered around the reserve, along with a bunch of other animals' bones.  If the bones/shells were cool enough, we'd take them back to the house for the collection.  Once I found a pretty awesome shell.  I picked it up to take it back to the house and realized that it hadn't completely decomposed.  Little smelly turtle bits inside that fell to the ground in a smelly heap.  As well as some eggs, because apparently it was a pregnant turtle.  Anna was with me and decided she wanted to see what was inside.  I don't know why she thought this was a good idea.  I mean, I was curious, too, but they were definitely not viable, and had been baking under the sun for who knows how long.  She picked one up to take it back, accidentally poked through a soft part, and the most vile-smelling, comically green shit oozed out all over her fingers and onto the ground.  I could smell it within like 30 feet.

While we're on the subject of gross things: Poop.  There was poop everywhere.  EVERYWHERE.  There was hardly a square foot without it.  But we got used to it pretty quickly.  It wasn't that gross, actually.  It dried pretty quick, so it wasn't messy, and even if it was fresh, it rarely ever smelled.  We even did a kudu poo survey, which involved picking up a lot of kudu poo.  It was more tedious than gross, because damn, those things shit up a storm.

On that note, I'm going to go ahead and talk about notable events in the trip (with visual aids and obvious headlines for you lazy, scan-through assholes).

Day 3 – first close encounter with a Black Rhino
While waiting for dinner, I set out with Lucas, Ryan, and Patrick on a brief walk.  Lucas had found a nearby waterhole the other day and we decided to visit it.  Naturally, we were not thinking of the fact that it was sunset, a popular time for all animals, and that we were going to a water hole, a popular place for all animals, particularly in the arid environment we were in.

“Look at all the rhino tracks in the mud,” Pat said, once we’d reached the water hole.  “You can tell one was here recently.  I wonder if it’s still around?”

“There’safuckingrhino,” Lucas said, as if on cue, pointing behind pat.  A black rhino (which are notorious for being extremely pissy) had walked out of the bushes maybe 20 yards away from us, at most.  It snorted and took a step towards us.

Ryan was the first to haul ass, probably because he’s a pussy Canadian. (Just kidding. Sort of.)  Pat was the last, because he thought Lucas was joking.

“Wait, don’t run!  I think we’re supposed to stay still,” Lucas said, and we stopped and looked back at the rhino.  It had disappeared.  Naturally, despite almost pissing our pants, we waited around a bit for it to come back, but it didn’t.

“Damn, that was awesome.  I hope the rest of the trip isn’t going to be way lame in comparison,” we all agreed.  Fortunately, it wasn’t, and we had may more rhino encounters, one where it was charging after the bakkie (although no one even noticed it was doing so until it had started to turn away).

Winnifred the Warthog’s Big Day

We – Well, mostly I, initially – had expressed interest to Peter about doing a necropsy if we had the chance.  One day as we were driving back to the house, we saw a dead warthog on the side of the road.  Peter screeched the bakkie to a halt (sending us all flying into the front bars/each other) and we pulled it into the back of the bakkie with us to take back to the house.  We dumped it in the front yard and hastily began our necropsy.

It had apparently died of starvation, which is no surprise, considering there are way too many warthogs.  We determined this from the surprising lack of fat on the corpse. Old age probably played a factor, too, because its teeth were worn down pretty badly.

At one point, to get further access to the throat, we slit the mouth open wider on either side, á la The Dark Night joker..  “Why so serious?” I said.  No one thought it was funny.  (Nor did they when I started singing “Hakuna matata”.  Oh well.)

Double Drift Game Reserve: giraffes and zebras and stuff!

Basically, one day we went to a cooler reserve that had giraffes and zebras and stuff which were not present on the Great Fish River Reserve.  I don't really have anything to say about it, except that it was awesome, so here are some pictures:

Rhino immobilization

The black rhinos on the reserve are closely monitored, identified by notches in their ears signifying different numbers.  One day we got to observe this notching taking place.
Brad, one of the head honchos on the reserve, who is awesome, reminds me of Bilbo Baggins, and every day without fail wears safari shorts and knee-high socks, is the guy in charge of shooting the tranquilizer darts into them from a helicopter.  (Side note: Basically everything Brad does is badass by default.)
 
We drove out to the helicopter launching point, watched it take off, waited around until a rhino was eventually darted (I have a video of this), and immediately closed in on it.  Some vet students visiting from England were in charge of the whole thing, and we stood back being super-touristy and taking pictures.

It’s worth mentioning here that when we had our safety debriefing, the man in charge told us that if for some reason the tranquilizer wore off early or something and the rhino stood up, we should run.  Preferably to the nearest car or tree.  “Wait, I thought we were supposed to stay still,” said Lucas.  “No,” the guy laughed, saying something like “Not if you want to live.”  Lucas, Ryan, Pat and I looked at each other as we all recalled our first encounter.  Oh well.

Warthogs are a huge pain in the ass, and are frequently culled.  One day one was shot and we bought it for the necropsy project group to have fun with.  I was not there for this because I was doing something way cooler that I cannot specifically remember, but I can tell you that there were five fetuses and I’m sure other people took a bunch of pictures that I can post later.

The real fun was that we decided to eat it.  And by “we” I mean “everyone else.”  (As a side note here, I’d like to say that about half of the group declared themselves vegetarian at the start of the trip, and by the end I was the only one that had not broken the diet and fallen in love with eating kudu or warthog or ostrich sausage or whatnot.)  The group that was far too excited about the activity was waiting for Brad’s guidance, since no one had any experience with butchering whatsoever.  But Brad was busy with something and taking his time, and we were on a schedule, so eventually they just kind of went at it.  I don’t know how good or bad of a job they did, but as a spectator, I can attest that they did their best.

Brad finally showed up, once everything was done, of course.  We pulled him over to have a look and see how we did.  All he had to say was “I don’t know what to tell you.”

And since I’m sure you’re curious:  I don’t know if it was how we butchered it, or how we cooked it, or if warthog is just not the best thing to eat, but apparently it was pretty gross and chewy as hell.

Anna and I befriend some random horses and maybe kill one of them
One day we all went to a nice place in the mountains and wandered around.  Anna and I hung behind everyone else at one point to pee, and when we were done, the rest of the group was far ahead and we ended up wandering off on our own.  Eventually we came across a group of horses.  Peter later told us that they had been domesticated by a nearby farm at one point, and occasionally people still come and ride them, but for the most part they just wander the hills on their own.

Naturally, we decided to try and befriend these horses.  We selected one that seemed the most likely to tolerate us and took our time, patiently inching closer and closer until it was evident that if we got within a 10-foot radius, it would move away, which was basically what I was expected.  I was surprised it even let us that close.  “Oh well,” I conceded.

“I wish we had an apple,” Anna said. “Do you have an apple?”
“Yes.”
“Throw it your apple!”
“I’m really bad at throwing.”
“THROW IT YOUR APPLE, ALICE.”
I threw it the apple.  It landed several feet away and rolled downhill a bit.
“THAT WAS AWFUL.  YOU’RE NOT GOOD AT ANYTHING,” Anna said (although she later denied saying this.)
Despite my awful throw, the horse became interested and approached it.  To our delight, it began eating it, and in thanks let us actually pet it.

After a while, it began to get the idea that we had no more apples and started to move off with a snort.
“Do you have any more apples?”
“No, just my sandwich, and I really want to eat that.”
“I have some cashews.  Do you think they like cashews?”
“Maybe.”

Anna graciously (since she’d forgotten her sandwich, and this was all she’d brought for lunch) offered a handful of cashews to the horse.  The horse was into it, and eventually started eating out of our hand.  We ended up feeding it our entire bag of cashews.

Eventually, we had nothing left to offer, and apologized to the horse, since it seemed to be standing somewhat sadly.  It coughed like it had a hairball.  Then it did again.  “Oh shit.  Is it going to puke?”  We heard its guts gurgle loudly.  “Oh shit.  It’s going to puke,” we joked to each other.  Its tail stopped swinging.  Its head slowly began to lower.  Its eyelids began to droop.  Its stomach gurgled again.
“Are horses allergic to cashews?!” Anna asked me in alarm.
“I don’t know!  Maybe!”
We watched it with a real sense of fear growing deep in our guts.  Oh, my god, I thought, It’s going to die.  We’ve killed this horse.  With cashews.
Suddenly it righted itself and snorted a few times, then walked away briskly and let out a huge shit.  It was apparently okay.

We asked someone else on the trip, a horse expert, if horses are allergic to cashews or apples.  “Not that I know of,” she said. “I know they love apples.”

Peter later told us that these horses probably belonged to a farm at one point.  People ride them ever so often, but for the most part they just kind of roam the hills.

Addo National Elephant Park - OMG ELEPHANTTSSSSSS

Perhaps my favorite part of the trip was when we spent a few days at Addo National Elephant Park.  Basically, there were a lot of elephants, and it filled me with joy.  They were very used to people, so we were able to get somewhat close to him.  Kind of too close.

Technically, we weren’t supposed to be outside of – or even hang out of – our vehicles, or we would have to pay a huge fine.  But we were far too excited to obey, hanging halfway out our windows and climbing onto the car roofs.  At one point members of the car I was in was focused on a group of elephants hanging out at the waterhole.  The other car shouted over to us.  “Get back in the car, there’s a huge male coming up behind you!”  It was a few hundred yards away, but it was walking straight towards us, since we were directly between it and the rest of the herd.  A few of us slid back inside, but some of us lingered.  Then the male began to walk faster.  Then it began to run.  “Get in the car!” we all shouted to each other, not sure if there was even anyone else still outside of it.  The elephant ran straight at us.  For a moment I seriously thought it might hit the car.  Then it turned at the last second and ran right by us.

Then Dave slid back in the car, looking pale.  He had been sitting on the roof.  “It looked right into my eyes, man,” he said.  There’s a great picture on someone’s camera of him looking like he’s going to piss his pants with the elephant only feet away.

There were also many dung beetles.  They are apparently super-important, and we weren’t allowed to drive over them, or even any elephant poo.  This turned out to be kind of a tricky obstacle course.  I did not witness any beetles rolling balls of poo, but I did see beetles on poo.

On our second night there, we went on a night drive around the park.  It was pretty cool at first, seeing mostly stuff we’d already seen.  Then all of a sudden we came across HYENAS AND JACKALS EATING A FUCKING KUDU.  It was pretty hard core.

The last morning, four of us decided to do a horseback tour, which no one else ended up enjoying except me, for some reason.  This may be because I was on the horse that was in charge of the afternoon tours, and it was all business.  It followed my guide’s horse nose-to-ass the whole time and didn’t even graze when we were stopped.  At one point the guide’s horse kicked it in the face. (THAT COULD HAVE BEEN MY SHIN, I thought).  The only downside was that my crotch was seriously sore for 5 days, and I was walking bowlegged for a little while

Hogsback debauchery and Guquka village

We had about three days of serious cultural interaction.  I mean, we went into town every now and then, but it was all pretty familiar, semi-wealthy, lots of white people.  In the villages, of which we actually went to one, we had three visits.  The best day was the third, when the school held sort of a special presentation for us.  The kids got all dressed up and danced, and some of the women, too, and at one point pulled us up with them.  They fed us food and the eldest man in the village told us that he’d never before seen white people dance with his people.  After it was done we hung out with the children, which loved us, and were crazy about having their pictures taken.  I thought it might be like the kids in Peru who pose for pictures and then ask for money, but they just wanted to see themselves on the camera screen.  I wondered how often they got to look at their own faces.  We put together a little CD of images to give them, so at least they have copies.

For those three days, we stayed in a little town called Hogsback.  It was up in the mountains and was absolutely beautiful, and also adorable, with streets named after The Lord of the Rings and a few cute cafes and stores.  We camped in the back of a hostel (called “Away with the Fairies”) with an awesome treehouse and a bar maybe 30 feet away.  A lot took place in this bar, perhaps because three of us had birthdays during in the three nights we were there.
The first day we were there was a day that most everything in the tiny town was closed.  Immediately most of the people went to the bar “just to get a drink.”  This was at about 3pm.  Anna, Marlo and I went into town to explore, despite most stuff being closed.  By the time we got back, at maybe 5:30, everyone in the bar was absolutely trashed.  They’d been doing shots with the bartender and playing drinking games and everything.  It was ridiculous.  Everyone was making out with each other before we even had dinner (at 7).  Things really got crazy at “Topless Ten-Thirty.”  I won’t go into detail, mostly because I don’t remember them, but I woke up drunk the next day.

The next night, I, and most others, opted out of the drinking again.  But a few people went back to the bar to celebrate Dave’s 21st birthday.  Apparently things quickly progressed when everyone in the bar bought him a shot (~10 in total), all of which he drank in less than a minute.  At some point in the night, one of the bartenders was trying to spin poi and ended up setting himself on fire.  Also, Dave made out with a 65-year-old woman wearing a leotard, garters, and a feather boa, who we dubbed the “Silver Fox”.  Twice.  For some reason we kept finding feathers from her boa on our stuff for the rest of the trip.

The third night we all drank some again, but we weren’t as into it, and we were definitely not going to do another “Topless Ten-Thirty.”  Throughout the night the bartenders kept cheering “Hey, it’s Topless Ten-Thirtyyyyy!!!!”, but no one was into it.  At one point they started taking off Corie's shirt.  She was obviously not into it.  “Lift your arms, come on,” they said.  “No, she can’t, guys, she’s retarded,” I said helpfully.  This comment made sense and felt appropriate at the time.  They got her shirt off and tossed it aside.  Anna caught it and handed it back as soon as the bartenders weren’t looking.

Despite not being as crazy of a night, we were still hung over the next day, which was Halloween.  This was the day of the dead rhino.

Dead rhino!  Happy Halloween! Also, Peter being wrong a lot.
As soon as we got back home, we all passed out.  Then Peter considerately awoke us with his horn.  “DEAD RHINO,” he yelled. “DEAD RHINO, LET’S GO.”
On a temporary tangent here: This was one of the things Peter said we’d never see.  There were a lot of things Peter said would never happen, getting progressively more amazing.  First we asked him if it ever hailed there, and he said “No, never.”  The next morning it hailed.
“Hey, Peter, it hailed this morning,” we said.
“No it didn’t,” he said matter-of-factly.
“No, really.  You didn’t hear it?”
“Sometimes it rains really loud.”
“No, it was definitely hail.”
“I don’t know… are you sure?” he said in his “you’re definitely wrong” voice.
“We took pictures.”
“Oh.”
The next incident was the first time we went down to the Great Fish River, which the reserve was named after.  (For the record, I didn’t see a single fish, let alone any “great” ones.)  “Do you think we’ll see any hippos?” we asked Peter. “No.”  We did.
There was also one individual animal on the reserve, a Nyala, which was not supposed to be there.  People were looking for it in order to kill it.  “Do you think we’ll ever see it, Peter?”  “No.”  I think we saw it the same day or something.
One not-so-nice thing he was wrong about was the water.  It was collected from rain, and we always had to conserve it, “but we shouldn’t run out,” Peter said.
“What if we do?”
“Well, let’s just hope we don’t,” he laughed.  “I guess we’ll have to get a truck to bring some up here.”
One day we ran out of water.  And the truck was broken down.  Fortunately, we’d all been so sick of drinking pool-tasting water that we’d built up our own private stashes of bottled water that got us by until the truck was fixed again.
The dead rhino was another thing he said would never happen, which did happen.  Sometimes I wanted to ask him “Hey Peter, do you think we’ll see a leprechaun lead us to a pot of gold?” but thought that might go too far and break the spell.

Anyway, we all stumbled into the cars, half-conscious, not necessarily with shoes, and sped off to the dead rhino.  It was kind of small, only about two years old, and had been killed in a fight.

Peter had given us permission to attempt to butcher it and eat the meat, which I was even considering trying (hey, have YOU ever eaten a critically endangered species?), but then a terribly hilarious thing happened. 

In preparation for cutting into the stomach, we stabbed it (the stomach) and stood back while the air escaped.  When it was done (seemingly), Brad took over and started slicing into it.  Then it spurted comically green bile everywhere, including all over his face.  Brad, being the badass he is, just kind of stoically took a few steps back and walked a few feet to the waterhole to clean his face.  “Were you laughing?  Were you laughing?” He was asking people, while I, off in a bush, was still laughing.  I think the moment only could have been funnier if Brad screamed like a girl.
So, needless to say, we abandoned the bile-covered meat after that.

The birthday bash and Priya’s disappearance
There were four birthdays in total on the trip, and since we were eager for any excuse to party, we all threw together a group birthday bash and went all out.  The food was fancy and the dining room was decorated.  There were candles and menus and everything, and Peter let us have wine and beer (and of course we all dipped into our private stash of hard alcohol).  We all dressed as nice as we could, considering most of us only had smelly, filthy, tattered clothes, and the girls even wore makeup.  It was good fun.

Later that night, however, things became not-so-fun.  I borrowed Patrick’s phone to check my e-mail (his phone was fucking ridiculous and magically had access to the internet) and got an epic e-mail from my mom.  “I am crying as I write this,” she wrote.  “Priya has been gone for a week now.”  Priya had not reacted well to me taking off, as I had predicted, and for the first few weeks hardly even left the bedroom.  The only time my mom saw her, she was hiding under the bed.  The last I’d hear was that slight progress was being made and Priya had allowed herself to be pet a couple times.  Then, apparently, she somehow got outside while the front door was being painted.

The fact that she went outside was alone painful enough.  She hated being outside and was always frantic and terrified to the point of trembling.  I figured she must have been very unhappy to go outside.  What was more painful was, of course, the fact that I was never going to see her again.  Because I knew immediately that she was dead.  We had so many predators in the area, particularly coyotes, which we had lost several outdoor-savvy cats to in the past.  Priya had no idea how to handle herself outside, let alone without me.

My heart felt as though it was being repeatedly wrenched and wrung with each thought of her.  The thought of seeing her again, of her stomping up to me with her pissed off “Where the FUCK have YOU been?!” meow, of how she lays on her back on the floor all stretched out like a sausage, of how she meows at my sneezes, of how she growls whenever someone knocks on the door, of how she burrows her nose into soft things as she kneads them with her paws, of how she lovingly grooms Maverick despite him being a huge dick to her, had gotten me through so many homesick and lonely moments and was what I was most excited to go home for.  She was the light of my light, my precious Priya, and she had gone.

It was a hard night, my emotions not at all aided by the alcohol I’d previously consumed, and in bed I cried harder than I had in perhaps years.  I still had a week left before going home and I had no idea how I’d be able to maintain normalcy, nor how I’d be able to explain to people why I was so off-kilter, because no one would be able to understand how the loss of a cat could cause so much despair.  Yes, okay, Priya is “just a cat”.  She probably doesn’t give a shit about me except for when I feed her and pet her.  I’m a crazy cat lady who is far too emotional.  Fuck off, it still hurts.  It’s excruciating.

My turn in the microlight / Obama’s success!
The next morning, Peter woke me up in his lovely way for me to go on the microlight.  I was feeling more optimistic that maybe Priya was still alive, that maybe she’d been taken in by someone or something.  After all, my cat Calvin had disappeared for two months before casually strolling back, well-fed and healthy and as if he’d never left.  I got in the car with my eyelids swollen half-shut, but I’m sure I just looked really hung over.  I tried to put it out of my mind.

I went up in the microlight with Brad.  It was awesome.  We immediately saw a whole lot of rhinos, which were hilarious.  As we flew down to them to see if we could identify them, they would awkwardly hop about and clumsily scamper away into the bushes.  The weather was gorgeous and the view was amazing.

As soon as I landed, Peter came up and took my helmet and said “Now you can tell everyone that you were up in a microlight flying over South Africa when McCain conceded the race.”  This brightened my mood.  A lot.  I danced around a bit.  Fuck yeah.

Then we went to Peter’s office to read the news on his computer while Dave had his turn up in the microlight.  I had an opportunity to check my e-mail, hoping there was news about Priya.  Instead there was an e-mail attachment from my sister, a “lost cat” sign for me to look over and approve.  My sister posted the sign everywhere she could within a mile radius.  The neighbors had all been notified.  One, who we weren’t exactly on 100% good terms with, even came home from work during lunch to check his basement.  A report had been filed at the humane society and my parents had visited it twice just in case.  But I continued trying to optimistic, focusing on Obama’s success as much as I could.

Our last night: One last bar fling, skinny dipping in the Indian Ocean ensues
On our last day in South Africa, we visited a little surfer town called Jeffrey’s Bay.  We hoped to go surfing, but it was too windy, so we left early and went to Port Elizabeth, where we were spending our last night.

It was a good day, and the hostel was surprisingly awesome.  That night we went out to dinner as a group, and it ended up being rather mediocre.  But afterwards, after Peter and Lesley had departed, we decided to hit up a bar (of course).  Aside from this old dude trying to hook me up with his son (and/or himself), it was great fun.  I danced like nobody’s fucking business.  (It turns out hiking boots are not the best dancing shoes, though, and I am still recovering.)  We all had one fantastic last night dancing with each other and drinking.  I had four double Red Bulls and vodka (because the shots there are ridiculously small, like half the size of ours.  I thought it was a joke at first), among other things, which may have contributed to my enthusiasm to go skinny dipping in the Indian Ocean.
I hadn’t gone swimming the whole time I’d been there, and I was really wanting to now.  Other people were into it but clearly hadn’t had enough to drink, because they were worried about silly things like temperature.  It was just me, Lucas, Lauren, and Corie who went.

It was great.  The water wasn’t that cold, it was a clear, quiet night, no one else was around, and the waves were perfect for jumping and diving.  I would have loved to stay longer if Lucas and Corie hadn’t pooped out early.  On the way back, we passed a fenced-in area with a waterslide.  “WATERSLIDE!  LET’S GO!” Lauren cried, and started climbing over the fence.  These fences were pointy on the top.  We feared for her safety.  And the cops.
“Let’s go, Lauren.  …How the hell did you get over there?”
“Come on, it’s easy!  Just put your foot there and there and jump over!”
“Lauren, we’re going to get arrested.”
“It’s okay, we’re American!  WATERSLIDE!”  “Okay, you can do it once.”  “Weeeeeeee!”
“Okay, we’re going now.”

We walked home, showered, went to bed, and left the next day.  It was a perfect last night. (Except that since I had no towel, I got saltwater in my boots and they smelled fucking RANK, and since I accidentally forgot my slippers at the hostel I was stuck wearing those boots for the two days of flying home, and with the feet-swelling and blisters it felt like my toes were fucking rotting off.  For your information.)

Now that I am home…
I’d been preparing myself for November.  I told myself, “It will be cold, unlike here.  Maybe snow.”  But I didn’t think about the whole autumn aspect, and was totally taken aback by the colors of the leaves, particularly as I was descending into Chicago.  It feels like it hasn’t been autumn for five years.
The other thing that feels slightly unusual is: paved roads.  There were paved roads in South Africa, but for the most part they were still fairly poopy.  Now car rides are so soothing that I just kind of pass out.  I mean, that’s also probably the jet lag, but I know cars make me sleepy anyway.
One thing I expected but still disappoints me is the price of alcohol.  It is nice to have a shot be a real shot, but it’s a bummer that I can’t get totally shitfaced for less than $10 anymore.
Nice things, though:
--REAL COFFEE.  We’d had some “true coffee” on our trip, and I’d taken advantage of the Kahlua coffee opportunities in town, but it’s so nice to have it on a regular basis again.  Today at the grocery store I even caved in and went to Starbucks for a peppermint mocha.  This was probably kind of a bad idea for several reasons: 1) I hadn’t eaten anything that day, so the caffeine hit strongly, and 2) The grocery store I was had had just been completely remodeled and doubled in size and I was absolutely floored.  Each time I went to pick out, for example, cheese, I was overwhelmed.  The grocery store we usually went to in South Africa (which wasn’t the best, even for South Africa) had basically two types of cheese: “Gouda” (aka Not-Gouda-Mystery-Cheese), and Cheddar, both of them iffy.  The remodeled grocery store now has an entire fancy cheese section with like 50 types of cheese.  And I love cheese.  I truly didn’t know what to do with myself.  I was at the grocery store for at least two hours.
--My bed.  Ohhhhh DAMMMMNnnnn, my bed.<3  Shortly before leaving, I got a queen size and bought a mattress pad that feels like a cloud.  It feels so damn good to be back.
--Hot showers whenever I FUCKING want.
--Water that doesn’t taste like a swimming pool
Among other things.

And as an epilogue…
Priya
My mom had been overly reassuring for the last week before my return.  “Don’t worry, we’ll find her!” she said.  One day on the phone she said the dogs were whining at something outside and without thinking she let them out, and when she looked up they were chasing something that looked far bigger than a squirrel and might have been Priya.  Aside from that, though, there had been absolutely no sightings and no news.  “She hasn’t come out to me calling her name, but I’m sure as soon as you come home and she hears her voice, she’ll come right out,” my mom said, desperately trying to convince not only me, but herself as well.
As soon as I got home, I called her name outside for a little bit, but the traffic, airplanes, and trains nearby stifled my voice.  I posted “lost cat” ads everywhere online.  The next day I received a helpful e-mail from someone who hadn’t seen Priya but had a lot of tips and advice, most of which I’d already done, but included a site that profiled cats’ different personality types and the most likely ways to bring them home.  Apparently, with Priya’s personality, she would likely still be within a five-house radius, but too terrified to come out, even if she hears me calling her voice.  The most likely way to get her phone would be to bait her into a humane trap at night when things are quieter and less intimidating.  Unfortunately, with Pluto and Mitch being outdoor cats, as well as other cats in the area, and raccoons, and coyotes, trapping was not going to be an option.
That day, I walked around the block calling Priya’s name anyway, and called her name at the street at the base of our property, but with all the daytime sounds, my voice just wouldn’t carry.  After visiting the humane society, I was staring outside at the squirrels and noticed how incredibly huge they were.  “Are you sure it wasn’t just a really huge squirrel the dogs were chasing that day?” I asked my mom.
“I’m thinking it might have been,” she said softly.
“I think she’s dead.”
“I think so too, honey.”
We both broke down.  My mom had been very torn up about it as well, mostly with guilt that Priya had gotten outside under her care, and knowing that Priya was absolutely the most precious thing in the world to me and I would be devastated by her loss.
I don’t think anyone seriously believed she could still be alive.  Not with the coyotes out there, and not with her having been gone for over two weeks.  But I had to keep looking for a while, just in case.  I couldn’t just abandon her out there in case she was still alive.
That night, I stayed up until 1am (which wasn’t hard, with my weird sleep schedule) to look for her.  Trapping may not be a possibility, but night would still be a better time for her to be out and about.  I went into the yard with my headlamp and a flashlight and called her name.
I immediately heard a meow.  It took me a moment to register that it was Priya’s.  I called again, and she meowed again.  Then I caught her eyes in the light.  I kept speaking to her and she kept meowing, running towards my outstretched hand.  I almost didn’t believe it was happening, since I’d dreamed of finding her just like this so many times since her disappearance.  As soon as she was close enough I picked her up to carry her inside.  I immediately noticed that she had lost a great amount of weight and was quite bony.  Inside, she went straight to the bowl of food and scarfed the whole thing down.  After swallowing each mouthful she’d turn to me, meow frantically, and rub against me before going back to eating.
I went into the other room to wake up my mom.  Priya didn’t like me leaving and scurried after, still meowing frantically.  She was so loud that I thought my mom must have woken up from that alone.
“Mom,” I said.  “I found Priya.”  (My mom says that this moment is one of the happiest of her life.)
“What?”
“I found Priya.”
“You’re making this up.”
“No, she’s, uh … circling my feet meowing, really loudly, actually.”
I went back to my bedroom so Priya could eat and my mom sleepily stumbled in.  “Am I dreaming?”  Happy tears ensued, etcetera, etcetera.  It took a while for me to process that she was actually back.  It apparently took a while for Priya, too, because every hour or so she’d wake me up meowing and licking my face so that I would give her reassuring skritches.
So she’s all right, aside from still being a bit skinny.  She still tends to follow me meowing frantically when I get up to walk to the bathroom or something, but she used to follow me around a lot anyway.  Maverick was kind of freaked out upon her return, and it took a lot of cautious sniffing for them to be comfortable with each other again.  They’re still not back to where they used to be.
I don’t know if I can put into words how happy I am.  I don’t think anyone could understand, either.  So I’ll just leave it at this:  I am so fucking glad my Priya pot pie came home.

Bonus story: My rat’s epic tumor

My parents have also been taking care of my rats and frogs.  When I went to say hello to my rats after coming home, I couldn’t help but notice that Penelope, my elder rat, had an armpit tumor the size of her fucking head.  “Mom?!” I called in alarm.  “Um, did you notice this?  It was definitely not there when I left.”
“Oh my god, no, I didn’t!”
“Really?  You’ve been feeding her and giving her water and changing her bedding for over six weeks and you didn’t notice this?”
“To be honest, they kind of creeped me out so I would usually just feed them and stuff without looking at them.  They would usually be sleeping in their little fuzzy tunnel anyway.”
So it looks like it’s surgery time for Penelope.  Bummer.  I know mammary tumors are common in older female rats, but she’s not even two years old.  I hope that they can still successfully remove it at this point, and/or that she’ll survive it.

P.S. You can see the rest of my (AWESOME) pictures on Facebook: 1 2 3 4 5 6.  Others on the trip have some pretty badass pictures, too, but not all of them have been uploaded.  I will probably make an additional picture post later on.
P.P.S  I have a few short, shitty videos as well.  I’ll be putting them in my video blog.  Whenever it is I end up doing it.  I’ll post it here when it’s done.