Where Is Caton Contest 2: Know Your Namibian Road Signs!

For the typical American, driving through Namibia is an entirely new experience in every sense. First, the roadways aren't littered with McDonald's restaurants. Horror of horrors! 

More importantly, driving cross-country takes true courage, much like driving cross-country in America during the 1930s. One doesn't simply hop in the car and motor off into the horizon, complacently certain that all will go smoothly. Well, you could, but you'd be dead wrong. Rather, you're forced to consider basic survival measures: Are your tires properly inflated? Should a tire (or two) go flat, have you got a can of tire repair fluid? Should you break down in the middle of the desert, do you have sufficient water to satiate your thirst for at least a day? Have you got enough fuel (there won't be any along the way)? Is it likely that the roads on your map are safely traversable in a Volkswagen Polo? Do you have any CDs comprised of anything other than the horrific German-language country music that litters Namibian music shops?

Then, there are the road signs. Fortunately, most are written in English, so they're at least legible, even if they are inaccurate. I once drove 45 minutes at 140 kilometers per hour to reach a town that signs insisted was 35 kilometers away. This is where a great many of you will roll your eyes and say, "I'm from America, Caton. I don't know kilometers." Come now. Does that make any difference? You don't have to understand the metric system to spot the fallacy in that Namibian sign posting.

While the road signs may be written in English, that doesn't make many of them any more intelligible. That's where you come in. To help introduce you to the adventures of Namibian driving, I've decided to hold a contest: Know Your Namibian Road Signs!

How the game works:
Below, you'll see a column of photos depicting road signs that I passed in Namibia. You'll also see some really bad guesses that I took at the meaning of each of the signs. Your task is to guess the true meaning of each road sign.

How to play:
Send me an email at catonwalker@gmail.com that guesses the meaning of each of the road signs numbered 1 through 5 (Hint: I've already given you one of them).

Send in your responses by Friday, August 8, 2008! Once I receive all emails, contest results and winners will be posted on www.whereiscaton.com! Everyone is "encouraged" to play! Or else you'll be forced to drive across the Namib desert. Alone, and without sufficient fuel!

1	Beware: Undead Bisected Man About
2	Caution: Erroneous Tic-Tac-Toe Board Ahead.
3	Mis-shapen Plus Sign (+) Ahead
4	Beware of Discolored Punctation
5	Caution: Warthogs

Driving Clear Across Namibia

After bidding farewell to Matt and disposing of my exceptionally disagreeable rented Hyundai Atos ("At Hyundai, we believe the driving experience should be at least as pleasant as a prostate exam."), I boarded a British Airways flight to Windhoek (roughly pronounced "vend-hook"), the capital of Namibia. ("Nuh-mi-bee-uh." Four syllables, people.) For regular readers of my blog, you'll notice this is the point where I'd typically say something like "Namibia is known for many things," and I'd follow up with a list of notable items. However, let's face it - that isn't true. Namibia isn't famous in the least, and most people wouldn't have heard of it at all had Angelina Jolie not recently chosen to give birth there. In reality, few people could even find Namibia on a map. Fewer still could properly spell "Namibia," and, among those, I suppose a good percentage would incorrectly pronounce it "Nambia." Most people, in fact, would likely guess that "Namibia" is a brand of diapers for "active seniors."

Importantly, however, Namibia's lack of notoriety is one of its primary charms. Unlike many other places in southern Africa, Namibia feels completely authentic. For one, this is one thirsty country; less than one percent of its land is arable land. The rest is devoted primarily to the country's namesake - the vast and desolate Namib desert. Given the distinctly inhospitable conditions, Namibia is also blissfully devoid of human meddling; with approximately six residents per square mile (2.5 people per square kilometer), the country is the least densely populated on Earth. Namibia is the romanticized version of Africa.

During my short flight to Namibia, I decided to chat up my seat neighbors about a proper itinerary for Namibia, considering I didn't have one. At all. I told them that I'd planned to rent a car and set out to explore the country. Wide-eyed, they solemnly reminded me that one simply doesn't go galavanting about the Namib desert; the desert is vast, it doesn't care for outsiders, and I could easily be stranded for days should I have car troubles. This cleared up any doubts I might have had - I was driving across Namibia! So after a night in Windhoek, and with a stomach full of gemsbok, I took out across the country toward the coastal city of Swakopmund (pronounced "Swa-cop-moond").

I can scarcely articulate the natural wonder that is rural Namibia. As I left the capital, I drove through shrub-covered hills that I could have easily mistaken for the hills of central Texas. As I progressed farther, I drove through unending varieties of desert: gray, rock-littered gray desert; iron-colored desert; massive dune-filled deserts comprised of gently moving sands; flat white deserts complete devoid of flora. I could go on. In short, I was amazed by the variety and beauty of the deserts. All the while, I marveled at the vast African sky above me (example pictured at right). The skies of southern Africa are a rich blue, its clouds take unearthly shapes, and the sun pierces the sky in a way it does nowhere else. I was entranced.

My entertainment options (ie, my Volkswagen's radio) were slightly less enchanting. It didn't take me long to realize that the radio's "seek" function was completely superfluous. The only necessary knob was the power (i.e., on-off) switch; I had the option of either listening to the radio station in Namibia, or not. I decided that I would, and was continually bemused by the content. First, I'd hear an announcer scold Namibians for wasting water ("It's a wonder that I should even have to address our listeners with this issue. Surely everyone knows that we live in a desert and water is therefore quite scarce indeed!"). Then, he'd repeat the same message in German (I presume; for all I know, he could have changed the subject entirely), Afrikaans, and at least one indigenous language. Then, I'd listen to a brief weather report rendered particularly unbrief by the requirement to recite it in at least four languages. And, finally, a bit of music.

Once again, no need for a selection of format; this is, after all, the radio station. No sooner had Britney Spears cooed to me in a fit of lust, I was shocked to hear Texas country band Lonestar profess their love to me before finding myself clapping along to a german Polka song. In fact, much like Americans seated around a parlor radio during the 1930s (so I presume), I quickly became quite satisfied with the one-size-fits-all formula of Namibian radio, and soon began to revel in the least likely forms of entertainment. I was particularly delighted to be serenaded by Tina Turner, who informed me that I am, in fact:

...simply the best, better than all the rest
Better than anyone, anyone I've ever met
I'm stuck on your heart, and hang on every word you say
Tear us apart, baby I would rather be dead

Well, thank you, Tina. You're not so bad yourself. And I must add that, for a woman of your vintage, you've got a really impressive pair of legs. Of course, I suppose anyone would if they'd spent as many years trying to outrun an angry, drunken Ike Turner as you have. I'm sorry, Tina. Was that over the line? Okay; no need to kick me...

After a scant 3.5 hours of desert, I finally arrived at Swakopmund, the self-processed adventure capital of southern Africa. I decided to forego adventure for the moment, however; I needed some food. Delighted to be in a town with an authentic German ancestry, I set out to find some bratwurst and sauerkraut. So, repeating Tina's mantra in my head, I drove into the city center, parked my car, and set out on foot.

Eating my way out of Johannesburg

After completing my Safari Field Guide Training, I realized that my plans for the next five months consisted of the following: a return flight from Hoedspruit (pictured at left) to Johannesburg, a three-week volunteer program in Cape Town (but not for another month), and nothing else whatsoever. So, once I set aside the flight (one hour) and the upcoming Cape Town program (three weeks), I determined that I had four months, six days, and 23 hours to fill. That's quite a lot of time. Of course, given that this period was to be filled with a rigorous schedule of doing W.W.I.P. (whatever, whenever I please), I've certainly had worse problems.

Fortunately, my new friend Carina (Carina was a fellow student at my just-completed course) had ties to South Africa since her parents live there. In fact, they live just near the airport in Johannesburg, so thanks to her endearing sense of Portuguese hospitality, she foolishly invited my friend Matt and me to stay at her house until Matt could seek medical attention (for an apparent mild case of malaria) and until I could formalize an itinerary.

This turned out to be a fantastic four days (Well, it was for me. Matt, meanwhile, was busy anxiously awaiting blood test results). You see, this was my first experience in a Portuguese household, and I loved every second of it. These Portuguese people really know how to show a visitor a good time. Foremost, it was nothing short of a gastronomic adventure. Every morning, I stumbled into the dining area to find a smorgasbord of yogurts, cereals, fresh nuts and fruits, toast with ham and cheese, sweet breads, jams, jellies, marmalades, and all manner of juices (I'd never heard of strawberry juice, but I did enjoy it). No sooner had I regained the ability to walk, Carina's mother would shoo us out of the house to an outdoor patio table loaded with freshly-cooked meats, pastas, vegetables, (more) breads, and desserts for lunch. After a brief afternoon reprieve from the force-feeding, Carina's father would then heard us into his SUV and drive us to a nearby casino for yet more gluttony.

In all, my time at Carina's house consisted of little more than trying to understand Portuguese newscasts, sleeping peacefully, eating, more eating, and struggling to muster a response whenever Carina would pile pasta on her plate, look at me solemnly, and say, "You see, Cay-tonne, for thees I am so fat."

Me: "Oh, Carina. You're not fat at all."

Carina (peering at me with the highest degree of incredulity): "Yes, Cay-tonne, I am fat. We do not discuss thees anymore."

Me (already peering at another bowl full of something delicious): "Okay. Are those potatoes? Yes, I'd love some!"

In fact, I found myself saying "yes" quite often, and not just in response to offers of food. Since I was able to mutter a few phrases in Spanish to Carina's family (as native Portuguese speakers, they can apparently under Spanish quite well), they seemed to have the mistaken impression that I could understand Portuguese. So, I'd get all sorts of questions from them and, since "yes" is one of the few words I know in Portuguese, I typically used it as my default answer anytime I was asked a question: Would I like some more bread? Yes, please. Would I like fish for dinner? Yes, please. Would I like to watch an American movie? Yes, please. Is it true that people in Texas eat rattlesnakes on a regular basis? Yes, please. Where do I plan to go next on my round-the-world journey? Yes, please. Am I on the run from legal authorities in America? Yes, please. Do I plan to leave your home any time soon, or ever? No, I quite like it here.

I did understand that last question.

Sadly, after four days - and at least as many pounds in new flesh - it was, in fact, time to leave. In theory, I'd had a full four days to plan my next adventure, but, between eating and saying "yes," there really wasn't much time for anything else. So, at the very last minute (10:00 am, to be exact), I logged on to a travel website and booked a ticket on a 12:00 noon flight to Windhoek, Namibia. Why? Well, Namibia's just to the northwest of South Africa, and it seemed as good a place to go as any. 

So, I drove to the airport in my horrendous rented Hyundai Atos (Though I can't read Afrikaans, I'm fairly certain even the Hyundai billboards in Johannesburg described the tiny Atos as "Even more disagreeable than your previous vehicle - your deceased mule."), bade farewell to Matt (he was off to Cape Town), and I was off to Namibia.

Photos from Safari Field Guide Training

My photo album from my four weeks at safari field guide training is now posted online. Please click here to be directed to the online photo album. Once you see the album, click on a photo to enlarge it. I recommend clicking on the first photo and then progressing through in order by clicking "Next" above each photo.

Name That Poo! Contest Winner!

Thanks to everyone that emailed their entries to the Where is Caton Contest: Name That Poo! I'm pleased to announce that we have a winner! Though I had many spirited attempts, none got more than 3 out of 5 correct, save one. Melanie of Minnesota, USA got a perfect score!

Congratulations to Melanie. She really knows her sh**!

By the way, the correct answers were as follows:

1B: That isn't an entire elephant dung; it's just a piece (I couldn't possibly pick up the whole thing). The bits of wood (from tree bark) tell us that this had to come from an elephant.

2E: Lion scat will closely resemble that produced by your neighborhood dog or cat. In this example, it's clear that the lion had consumed a good deal of fur. The fur is clearly visible in this specimen.

3A: Despite its size, the Southern Giraffe produces remarkably small dung. It's a bit like a llama; the pieces are small, but they are quite numerous. Giraffe dung pieces have tell-tale indentations on both ends of their cylindrical shape.

4D: This wildebeest dung has been partly processed by resident dung beetles.

5C: Horrifying, I know!

Things I Nearly Stepped On, Part 2

Though the presence of humans caused most of the animals to flee our camp (see prior post), other animals were a bit slow in getting the proverbial hint. Anytime one chose to walk about the camp, it was imperative to keep an eye out for creatures that might be willing to sting, bite, or otherwise cause one harm. This was particularly true at night, when the predators were active. Walking alone at night without a flashlight (torch) would have earned me a nice tongue lashing from the instructors; in the bush, it's always entirely possible that I could have been attacked and eaten by the resident lions. I'm pleased to report that I wasn't.

That said, I did encounter a few dangerous cohabitants of the Karongwe Game Reserve, including at least three of which could have easily introduced me to my demise:

Though often quite diminutive, the puff adder (pictured at left) is the deadliest snake (at least for humans) in all of Africa. This isn't because the puff adder is particularly aggressive, but because he is particularly lazy. You see, as you're out walking in the bush, snakes can feel you (or at least the vibrations you create) long before you get anywhere near to them. Since they'd rather not be bothered with you, snakes typically slither away to safer environs before you even notice them. Not the puff adder; he just sits lazily and, should you be unfortunate enough to get near to him, he'll casually strike. And he's got one of the fastest strikes in all of snakedom (Yeah, I made that word up. So what?), so you've no hope of out-maneuvering him. Worse, even 1 ml of his venom will do you in. In short, you do not want to get in close confines with a puff adder. Incidentally, my friend Pieter and I found this little guy slithering alongside our camp's swimming hole. Mistaking him for another species of snake, we promptly set to putting him in a cardboard box to play "show and tell" with the the other students back at camp. This won't go down as one of my smartest decisions. If you're feeling extremely adventurous, you can view post-bite photos of a puff adder victim by clicking here.

As it would happen, lions can be somewhat hard to see when they're dozing away the day in a thicket of brush. Those are two lions in the photo at right. And, yes, it was just as difficult to see them in person as in that photo. As I approached these two, I didn't see them. Fortunately for me, I was driving a Land Rover. Unfortunately for them, they were directly in my path. Had my instructor not implored me to stop (I couldn't imagine why he was asking me to do so), I would have run over these two girls. I can only imagine the paperwork I would have had to fill out had that happened. Of course, that lions are often camouflaged so well is exactly why one must take care when walking in the bush. Stumbling across a rare species of flightless bird is one thing; stumbling across a pride of voracious predators is quite another.

Speaking of well-camouflaged predators, you may notice something rather peculiar in the photo at left. That is a Nile crocodile which, curiously, can no longer be found anywhere along the River Nile. In South Africa, however, they can be found all over the place. Crocodiles are most notable for their least endearing attribute: they are the only predators that actively hunt humans. This little guy was approximately 2 meters (6 feet) in length, and would be happy to ruin anyone's sunny afternoon swim.

Where is Caton Contest 1: Name that Poo!

While on our daily bush walks at safari field guide training (see previous post), the instructors placed heavy emphasis on two activities: (1) flagrantly forcing the students to risk heat stroke and (2) instructing the students on various methods of tracking wildlife. Experts (like my instructors) can track wildlife by taking note of obscure clues like broken twigs and misplaced mud. Laypeople (like me) are taught to rely on a more primal method of tracking wildlife - looking for wildlife excrement. In lay terms, "excrement" may be described simply as "poo." Whether you're an expert or a layperson, you should be familiar with this stuff. Naturally, I was. 

The course's emphasis on poo identification sometimes took questionable turns, such as our somewhat frequent Impala Dung Spitting Contests (that's exactly what it sounds like; participants insert a specimen in their mouths, then spit said specimen as far as possible). More often, however, our poo searching was comprised of more mundane activities. For instance, I learned that: (1) "dung" is produced by herbivores (e.g., elephants); (2) "scat" is produced by carnivores (e.g., lions); and (3) "feces" are produced by omnivores (e.g., you). I found this revelation rather troubling: If feces are produced exclusively by omnivores, then how can we use the verb "defecate" to describe the excretion activities of herbivores and omnivores? So, I implored my instructors to consider adopting a new verb for herbivores based on the word "dung" (deduncate). My suggestion was enthusiastically dismissed.

So, to help introduce you to the world of poo identification, I've decided to hold a contest: Name That Poo!

How the game works:
Below, you'll see two columns of photos. Photos 1-5 depict various types of poo. To the right, Photos A-E depict photos of the animals that produced the poos shown  in photos 1-5. Your task: Match the poo with the animal that made it!

How to play:
Send me an email at catonwalker@gmail.com that matches each of the poos 1-5 with the poo producers A-E (e.g., 1A, 5D, and so on). If you guess correctly, you may win exciting prizes, like the admiration of your friends and family. What's more, you may wish to revise your resume to include appropriate designations such as "poo enthusiast."

Send in your responses by Friday, June 6, 2008! Once I receive all emails, contest results and winners will be posted on www.whereiscaton.com! Everyone is encouraged to play! Even if you don't give a sh**.

1	A
2	B
3	C
4	D
5	E