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.