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Finland in the Dark Continent A Journey Through Southern Africa Copyright 1989-1993 by Richard Bollar - All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form, by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, except brief extracts for the purpose of review, without the written permission of the publisher and copyright owner.
Getting Back I finished the repair and referred back to my Michelin map. Oh, it's only six hundred and fifty kilometers away. Let's see... The flight leaves at 1930, and it's now noon. If we were able to get away by one, then it would be a doable, but fast little journey through Namibia. Too bad! I would have enjoyed a little sightseeing in Windhoek. Imagine a capital city that has a population of only 150,000. Thinking more about the drive ahead, I relaxed a bit. The road was paved pretty much all the way, and it seemed that we would be able to make some good time. I was starting to feel really good about things as I loaded my gear into the Land Rover. Then I noticed the fuel gauges; they were both pegged on empty. Now, there's an exciting little piece of news! I wandered over to chat with Pat and mentioned the gas problem to him. He wasn't impressed, and reminded me that we could purchase gas here, at Namutoni. Oh, that's true, but what about the break from 1230 to 1430 that the rangers take? Pat looked first at his watch then at me. I started to get a sinking feeling as I looked at my watch: 1245. Now, this could be a problem. Good old Pat told me not to worry and went to round up a ranger to help us out, but no luck. All of the charm in the world wasn't about to muster a male, government employee to his aide. What an inordinately bad time to be nailing Pat on something. Sometimes having choices isn't the best thing in the world. So, what do you choose, when your choices are to either 1) drive out into the desert and hope that there was 100 kilometers worth of fuel left in the tanks or 2) wait until 1430 to get gas, but then have a likely impossible drive to Windhoek. Pat turned to me and with all the flourish of a carnival huckster asked me to make the decision. After all, it was my flight.... Really, being the kind of person that I am, the choice was obvious. Have you ever driven around a traffic jam just knowing that the additional time that going around took just didn't save you any time? Yeah, me too. But at least I'm moving and sometimes the appearance of making progress is more important than making progress itself. My decision was to go. We left Namutoni shortly after one, and made the outer gates of the Etosha park right as the primary tank drained and the engine died. I've never experienced a feeling like this before. We drove on the reserve tank, looking for another vehicle from whom we might be able to siphon off a liter or three. But we didn't see any cars at all along the drive. Finally we hit the main road and had only seventy-three kilometers left before we reached the town of Tsumeb. I watched the odometer with almost anal-compulsive intensity, knowing that each click was a kilometer closer to fuel. It was strange, though, that we hadn't seen any other traffic. That question was answered as we crested the next hill and saw ourselves being flagged to the side of the road at an army check-point. These guys looked surprised to see us. Indeed, we were the first vehicle to pass through the check-point all day, which was really surprising to me. I motioned to Pat to turn off the engine to conserve what was left of our precious fuel reserve, and we watched the army search the vehicle and eat time. Finally, we were told what they were looking for: Some SWAPO terrorists had crossed the Angolan border (only one hundred kilometers to the north) and set some cars on fire in Grootfontein, another hundred kilometers to the southeast. Ah, the joys of vacationing in a war zone. The search had taken a good fifteen minutes, and we then continued on our way. We were all so excited about the search that we forgot about the fuel problem. In fact, John and I cracked open a beer as we continued south. Wonder of wonders, we reached Tsumeb and found the sole gas station open. We filled the tanks from two separate gas pumps to save a bit of time, and continued the drive after reprovisioning with junk-food and beer. We started to see more traffic on the road to Otjiwarongo, and having full tanks, the trip became pretty monotonous. We would stop every fifty kilometers or so for another check-point but aside from that, there was really nothing going on. We were all tired, and possibly tired of being around each other so we continued the trip in silence. John slept, Pat drove, and Pam and I read. In retrospect, maybe I should have entertained Pat, but he seemed to be pretty much okay. I finished the 'Second Deadly Sin' as we approached Okahandja, only seventy-two kilometers from Windhoek and about a hundred to the airport. Darkness was falling, so I knew our arrival would be close. It was already 1800 and I knew we would be very, very lucky if we made it to the flight on time. Just outside of Windhoek we hit another roadblock. Pat slowed, but he didn't stop. He smiled and waved and motioned us to do the same. Rolling about thirty kilometers an hour, we crossed the line that demarcated the roadblock and watched the soldiers.... What in the hell was I doing? In a Land Rover painted like a zebra, accompanied by a mad Afrikaner and two Americans with flatulence problems, I was trying to set a land speed record to Windhoek from Angola, I was now running roadblocks manned by guys who obviously looked like they needed some target practice. I felt like a tin can on a stump. Weapons ready, the soldiers again motioned for us to stop, then seeing that we weren't planning on stopping, they waved us through. It was then that we saw the United Nations caravan, and I had no doubt that the U.N. guys had saved our butts just by being there. We reached Windhoek at 1900, with thirty kilometers and thirty minutes left to go. I heard Dirty Harry in the back of my head, "Do you feel lucky?" We flew through the town, and I was surprised by the number of Mercedes lining the streets; a gift from the German government in support of the U.N. troops, used to ferry generals and diplomats around. The Windhoek brewery was in the middle of the town, but I barely had a moment to breathe in the heady smell of hops before it was well past us. No matter, we preferred Hansa anyway. Through some miracle, Pat got us to the airport at 1915, and I hopped out of the Land Rover to investigate my chances of getting on the plane. Forgetting about Dirty Harry at the point, I heard Sigorney Weaver saying, "lucky, lucky, lucky..." in a small reprise of her role as Ripley in 'Alien.' There was a line at the counter, and I heard the agent calling out the names of passengers traveling on standby. Realizing that my time was just about up, I went to the head of the line and snatched my reservation right as it was about to be given up to a U.N. official. One quick imprint on my American Express, and I was a ticket holder. A very, very happy ticket holder. I had only enough time to say "thanks so much" to my host and friends for an amazing trip, and I was off through emigration. Yes, in the period since we entered Namibia last, a week prior, they now had border guards. They stamped my passport and sent me on my way into the international departures lounge. In reality, the departures lounge wasn't a big place; it had only one gate, and a small duty free shop. People were lined up to get on board my flight, but it looked like I had enough time to make a quick phone call. I rang the Alders and asked if they might be able to pick me up. Gavin answered, and though he seemed surprised to hear from me, he said that he would forward the message to his father. Though it seemed doubtful that I would be met at the airport in Johannesburg, it was better than being stuck in Windhoek. {Talbot's overnight in Windhoek} I decided to forego the duty-free and got on line for the plane. Walking out on the tarmac, I felt very odd. I was back in civilization and wouldn't be walking on a dirt road for a long time. The South African Airways 737-200 was a long way away, and I felt like I had walked for miles. I passed three United States Air Force C-5B's and waved to the Americans guarding them. In the bright xenon light, the 'Military Airlift Command' stencil was clearly visible, as were the blue berets worn by our soldiers. This was the extent of our involvement in UNTAG; and it was certainly better being a flight crew than one of the guys on the front. At least the odds against getting one's cahones lopped off were much better in the big city.... The interior of the plane was decorated in early Boeing tacky, which wouldn't differentiate it from any American carrier. I was pretty much the last one on, and fortunately I was carrying only a camera bag, because it seemed that each of the other passengers had brought all of their belongings aboard. I suppose that SAA was less concerned about passenger safety, because not only were the overhead compartments and 'beneath-the-seat-in-front-of-you's' full, but so were most people's laps and part of the aisle. My camera bag and I worked our way to the very back of the jet, and found a middle seat in the last row. I sat in my seat, squished between my seat mates and waited for departure. We left the apron only a half hour late and taxied to the runway. Windhoek isn't exactly the center of the free world, and being the only jet in the area, we were first in line for takeoff. At the end of this runway, we sat for a moment and then turned every light on the aircraft off. I really mean off. Interior lights were completely disabled, including the exit signs, and tell-tale indicators like the 'no-smoking' sign. Exterior lights were also off, including the beacons on the wings. The engines powered up, and the jet lurched forward. The only light inside the cabin was insignificant; it came from the blue runway lights outlining our departure from Earth. There was no Moon, and the stars were only window dressing for eyes that had nothing else to view. We left the ground at an angle that was so steep that it could only mean one thing: We were about to stall and crash into the sands of the Kalahari desert. The engines whined under the strain, knowing full well that the small Pratt and Whitney designed power plants were not designed to sustain vertical flight. A very steep series of turns did nothing to ease my concerns, as I saw small occasional bits of light from the ground directly below me through the 737's window. An eternity passed as I stared at the luminescent hands of my watch. The second hand teased me with ten full passes across the apex of its journey before cabin lights and marker beacons were illuminated and I really got to enjoy the company of my partners. First off, I learned about the lights off policy. It appears (perhaps with extraordinarily good reason) that SAA is very concerned about their flights coming to a premature conclusion with the introduction of an anti-aircraft missile to the flight plan. After my education on South African flight procedures, we talked about how few American tourists ventured into Namibia. "Wouldn't it be nice," I was asked my the nice lady to my right, "if South African Airways were to resume their non-stop flights from New York to Johannesburg and Cape Town?" so that I wouldn't have to fly via London and Nairobi to get to Southern Africa? Omitting the fact, for a moment, that to this point, I hadn't flown on SAA for purely political reasons, I smiled sweetly and accepted the compliment that I looked just like her son, who was currently serving in the South African Army). Our discussion was interrupted by a meal that was passable, but didn't included woeurs. The beer was a Castle, and that reminded me that I was on the trek out.... The remainder of the flight was uneventful, undoing my past two weeks of travel in under two hours. Even the landing at Jan Smuts was a non-issue. We were parked at the domestic terminal in only a couple of minutes and were allowed out onto the apron. Interestingly, we didn't have to pass through immigration or customs; I guess that the folks in Johannesburg didn't realize that Namibia was no longer part of their country. As one might expect, my bag was last off the carousel, but I did retrieve it, and I made my way out of the baggage claim and saw that Vernon was waiting for me. Seeing him was great, but I felt so exhausted from my travels, that I virtually passed out in the car as we drove home. I suppose that it wasn't all that late, only ten at night, but Vernon's house was dark. I suspected that would allow me to get a bit of sleep, but Vernon flipped on the TV, handed me a Castle and took a seat on the sofa. We stayed up and watched TV and talked politics until very late. Alas, to this day I remember little of that conversation. Finally, I was allowed to sleep, taking the guest bedroom for myself. On Thursday, May 18, my last hours in Southern Africa started with the smell of coffee. I opened an eye to see Beauty standing over me with a tray of coffee and rusks. She sat the tray down and left me to contemplate my morning. The sun shown in the bedroom window, letting me know that the time was well past seven. The flight was at ten, so I had ample time so long as I didn't screw around. The shower felt superb, and I enjoyed it while listening to the BBC World Service. From the bottom of my bag, I pulled out my 'traveling clothes,' a blazer, button down shirt, and long trousers and put them on, feeling somewhat strange. I eyed my shorts and T-shirts, and tossed them into the bag, along with the rest of the possessions I had accumulated over the past weeks. The bag sealed, I was ready to go, and dragged the bag and myself into the kitchen. Phyll was waiting there for me and asked if I was ready to go. Sigh. Yeah, I guess I was ready. We had a nice drive to Jan Smuts Airport, and I had an opportunity to thank Phyll for her family's hospitality before entering into the departure lounge. The sliding doors closed behind me, and I passed through security, which included a pat-down and complete unpacking of my bags. Security check complete, I entered the departure hall. Soldiers filled the hall, armed with evil looking automatic weapons. The Olympic Airlines counter was not busy, and I was able to plop my bag and ticket on the shelf immediately. The agent handed me a boarding pass and baggage claim check and I was on my way to the gate. Walking to the gate, I noticed 'NBO' stamped on the baggage claim before I tucked it away, and mentally noted that the bag was going to the same place that I was. It cheered me up, as did walking towards the airplane in the bright African sunshine. Olympic Airways (the national airline of Greece) was flying a 747-100, and I paused a moment to survey this plane and the others on the apron before boarding.... I paused at the foot of the stairway and looked back at the jets and the runway. Seeing the familiar Lufthansa and British Airways tail plumage, I could have been anywhere. Only the four SAA 747 Special Performance Super B's gave me an indication of the place I was leaving behind. All the same, I was anxious to get on my way and I walked up the stairs, only to be greeted by a swarthy man in a dress. Oh, it's a woman. Oops. I took my window seat in coach class, and waited for our departure. The in-flight magazine made for interesting reading for a good three or four minutes, and I enjoyed learning about the learning about the ultra-modern Olympic fleet of 747-100's (yawn). Amazingly, we left on time, and headed to the northeast, to Nairobi. Once the seat belt light was extinguished, I took a walk about the plane. The non-smoking cabin, where my seat was, was virtually empty, but to the back, the smoking section was packed! A haze filled the cabin, settling at the ceiling. I felt sorry for the flight attendants who worked in the back until I saw them smoking as they pushed the drink cart through the aisle. I returned to my seat and took a small nap before my flight attendant, a very Greek-looking man, offered me lunch and a glass of wine. Lunch was stuffed grape leaves and olives, and it was good. Desert was an appropriate baklava, which I enjoyed with a cup of Turkish coffee. It had enough caffeine to keep me awake for the entire trip. No longer being able to sleep, I sorted through my belongings. Having gotten just a bit wiser this time, I carried the exposed film, souvenirs and cameras in my carry on. The bag was heavier than I would have enjoyed, but seemed better than the alternative. I reviewed some of my videotape, read my book, and watched the landscape pass by. Shortly, we descended into Kenya. Ah, my old friend Jomo Kenyatta International Airport hadn't changed in the few days since my last visit, and I had to smile to myself as we landed next to the burned out Kenya Air 707. The taxi to the terminal give me a moment to consider my plans for the afternoon. Given that I didn't have a visa for Kenya, and that I was very unlikely to get one considering the three pages of South African visas in my passport, I figured that I'd be able to find a quiet place to read and have a beer during my eight hour layover. I was only a couple of rows from the exit, and wound up being first out of the jet, though I really wasn't in a hurry. After all, I wasn't leaving until one in the morning. I walked towards the transit lounge, through dark corridors and searched for a bar, but before I made any headway at all, three letters flashed in my head: NBO. I had only checked my bag through to Nairobi! In an incredibly stupid piece of poor planning, I now needed to search for my bag. Son of a bitch! I found a transit agent, who told me I needed to go through immigration and claim my bag. Only then, I learned, would I be able to check my bag in with Pan Am. Well, at least I now had something to do with my day.... With few exceptions, an American passport works well for getting into most any country. Unfortunately, South African and Israeli visas make the passport just about useless in Africa and the Middle East. I looked at mine and wondered what I would do. Tell the truth, most likely. Quarantine was the first station. My vaccinations were current, with yellow fever and cholera being the ones in question at the moment. I shuddered as I thought about the prospect of getting an 'on the spot' inoculation from a shared giant hypo. Yeah, that would be too much fun. The health officer reviewed my documents and stamped my landing card so that I could proceed to immigration. There was a line, so I got to mull my story. Too soon, it was my turn and as I was ready to open my mouth and tell my sad story, the official took my passport and paged directly to the South African visas. He was about to stamp 'Entry Denied' onto the page when I had a burst of inspiration, and a story poured from my mouth that I had never heard before. "Look," I said, pointing to the Windhoek stamp in my passport, "I was in Namibia observing their independence. Kenya has many soldiers there working to keep the peace. You must be very proud!" "Oh, so you are an observer! But why do you have a multiple entry visa into South Africa?" Hey, now we're getting somewhere! At least he's interested. I pointed out that I didn't want to fly on South African Airways because that would be giving the South Africans money. The story seemed to be good, but unfortunately, "I'm sorry, but your application will need to be processed in Nairobi. That will take time." I took a breath and realized that I might have an opportunity. "Perhaps I might be able to pay a fee to have my application expedited?" I asked, handing the passport, landing card and twenty dollars back to the official. The officer smiled broadly and placed a visa into my passport. Then much to my shock, he called to the other officers in the hall (we being the only ones left; all the other passengers had been processed) and told them that I was a representative with the United Nations, and that I had just come back from Namibia. I couldn't possibly have gotten myself into a worse situation, could I? I spent a half hour telling the guys about the United Nations action, suspecting that playing along with the U. N. representative story was a better plan than full disclosure. Finally, I was set loose to enter the baggage claim. The claim area was not air-conditioned, and I immediately wilted in the 100+ degree weather, with equal humidity. I started to feel exhausted before I even made it to the carousel. I saw the carousel, and it was empty. Unbelievable! The situation completely drained me and I sat down on the dusty floor, unable to do anything else. I was surprised that no one came over to wonder what in the hell I was doing on the floor, but I sat for five minutes before I heard the carousel start again.... The bag immediately rounded the corner. It must have been just on the other side of the carousel. My stupidity didn't help my mood, and I just stared at the bag as it passed me. Of greater interest were the sweat stains. All of my clothing was completely soaked with sweat, and I hadn't moved more than a hundred meters since I left air conditioning ten minutes earlier. I took off my blazer, and felt cool as the sweat started to evaporate from my shirt. I wondered what I was going to do with my time; the customs hall was empty, with even the customs officers gone, so I couldn't get any advice. I decided to check my bag and see if I could get some currency of the realm and then go downtown for dinner. I saw a sign for Pan Am's check-in counter and walked towards it. The walk was only a half kilometer, but in the sun with a bag that had two trips worth of crap in it, I thought I was going to die. In the relative scheme of things, a baggage cart would have been worth a pile of money right then. The damned gate seemed to get further away, not closer as ridiculous as that seems. I finally, finally made the counter to find a placard that said that the gate wasn't open until 2200. Okay, time to go to plan 'B'. If only I had one. I decided to change some money and take the bag downtown with me. In a worse case scenario, I could store it at the Inter-Continental for a couple of hours. Fortunately for my weakened state, I needed to walk in the shade for only a few paces before I got to the Bureau de Change. And then I became a victim of African bureaucracy. "So sorry, but we don't have any Kenyan currency, but we will buy it from you and give you U.S. dollars." So, in effect, I was screwed, and I would need to stay at the airport since I effectively had no money. It was definitely time to go to plan 'C'. This plan was barely worth mentioning because it involved sitting on a bench and reading for five or six hours until I could check-in. A half hour of that, and I had fully had enough. I couldn't even get a soda, and I was starting to get really thirsty. I needed a plan 'D'. In a series of progressively worse ideas, you really mustn't be surprised that I decided to go to the British Airways counter to see what I would have to do to get compensation for the clothing I bought when I knew the bag wouldn't make the trip to Namibia with me. Miracle of miracles, they were open, and the agent, Jimmy Tutti was really, really great! Only a few seconds into my story, he stopped me and ushered me into the back room for tea. It would take time to get things straight, after all, so we might as well be comfortable. Oh, being back in air conditioning was heaven! Jimmy brewed the tea and got the claims paperwork for me. I filled out the form, and we sat and enjoyed tea for a couple of hours. Jimmy, it turns out, was the guy who found my bag for me. He showed me the telex log which listed all the efforts that BA had made to find the bag. It was an impressive effort. He was also a flight attendant for Pan Am's West African service before they had to discontinue it in the early eighties.... Okay, so spending a few hours in British Airways' crew room wasn't the best plan in the world, but at least it was comfortable, and I did get a few hours of nice conversation and a decent tea (with milk and sugar, of course). At eight, Jimmy's shift was over and he took me to Pan Am's counter and told them to take care of me before sending me on my way. There wasn't much of a line, and the wait for opening was really kind of fun. In front of me was a Pan Am employee from New York who was on vacation with her husband. They had been in Kenya tracing their genealogy, and were just returning after three weeks near Mombassa. Behind me were a couple from Jackson Hole, Wyoming who had just spent six weeks sitting on the beach in the Seychelles. Restaurateurs in the winter, they unwind from a season of seven-day weeks in an island paradise as close to the middle of nowhere as one could hope to find. Finally, the gate opened, but it wasn't the check-in that took time; that was fast. Customs and emigration was a bitch, though. First off, there was an exit tax of twenty U.S. dollars (cash only); then, you and your bag get inspected by hand. It was pretty thorough, and they visually inspected every item that I carried, though they didn't x-ray anything; finally, I was able to pass through to emigration. I gave my passport and exit card to the officer, with my American friends right behind me. Problems. "Where is your currency declaration form?" he asked me. Export of the currency is forbidden, and one is supposed to file a declaration when they arrive. I didn't. I told him that, and he said, "You're the United Nations official!" My body was filled with an adrenal fear. What could I say? Fortunately, I didn't have to say anything because he stamped my passport and sent me on my way. We went to the bar, which was strangely empty, and had a couple of pops of Tusker beer sitting in a booth which overlooked nothing. Given the number of late evening flights leaving Jomo Kenyatta, I was surprised to see that we were the only ones there. I watched the beer poured into a glass, and I wondered should have chosen to drink it straight from the bottle. About a half hour before the flight, we went to stand on line for Pan Am's 1067 to Frankfurt, but not before a quick look at the duty free. I still had news deprivation on my mind, so I took a look at the short-wave radios. The only one they had was a Grundig for $350. Not what anyone would call a good deal. Even things which tend to be priced better at duty free like liquor and perfume were very expensive by U.S. standards. While waiting on-line for a final security check before boarding, I noticed how very dreary the terminal was. Shaped like a horseshoe, the single corridor was very narrow and dark. Small duty free kiosks were tucked in between each gate, as was the seating. The seating, however, was completely inadequate, with maybe twenty seats per gate. As a result, most people were sitting on the floor, surrounded by what must have been all of their worldly possessions. I wondered where the chickens were. Through the window, I saw the white and blue airframe of the Pan Am Airbus Industrie A310-222; the Clipper Betsy Ross, cabin lights shining though the windows and I longed to be inside.... But first, there was one last security check. One more pat down, a walk down the jetway, and I was on board. Right at the door was the Pan American flight attendant, holding a tray of Moët and orange juice. I felt like I was back in the States, even though I was drinking French champagne in a French aircraft. Cabin lights were dimmed before we even left the ground, it being so late. I arranged blankets and pillows into a nest and prepared to sack out right after a night cap. Shortly after we left the ground, I heard a heavy Texas drawl over the intercom. It was the pilot who made an announcement that went much like this: "Good morning, Ladies and Gentlemen and welcome about Pan American World Airways flight ten-sixty-seven, non-stop service from Nairobi's Jomo Kenyatta International Airport to Frankfurt. I'm Captain Cassidy, and I'm part of the crew which will fly you safely to Europe this morning. We're flying this morning on an Airbus Industrie A-three-ten Airbus, which we affectionately call the Clipper Betsy Ross. We'll be flying at thirty-five thousand feet and at this altitude, the air temperature will be minus twenty degrees Fahrenheit. Our airspeed will be five hundred and ninety knots. Our flight plan will take us over Somalia, Ethiopia and Egypt. Then over the Mediterranean Sea as we head towards Europe; crossing Greece, Yugoslavia and Austria before we reach our destination of Frankfurt am Main, Germany." Captain Cassidy proceeded to tell us the gross weight of the aircraft and how many pounds of fuel we were carrying. But what was most amazing was that in the same drawl, he gave the same spiel in German and French, converting all English measurements to metrics. I was really, thoroughly impressed. There was only a small snack plate, which I ate with a glass of white wine (the same Joseph Drouhin Chablis as on the flight from Washington) before going to sleep. I missed the video programming, and slept with the faint flickering of the wing-tip beacon reflecting in my window. I got plenty of sleep and woke only when sunrise over Europe lit my seat. Nice. There was time for breakfast before our very uncivilized 0730 arrival on Friday, May 19. I had a salmon omelet with fruit salad and (of course) a glass or two of Moët. Any arrival at Frankfurt am Main is a homecoming as far as I'm concerned, and even though I didn't have any friends invited to meet me at the airport for a drink or two, I still looked forward to a couple of hours there. Our landing was on-time, and in a touch which seemed to be very appropriate, we parked away from the gates and walked down stairs onto the apron. We were met at the bottom by Captain Cassidy and his crew, wearing the white caps and double breasted suits more reminiscent of sea captains than aircraft pilots, but unique to Pan Am. Busses took us to the terminal, where to my dismay (and interest), the bar was open and several of us from Nairobi chose to suck down a couple of Frankfurter Pils and wursts before catching our continuing flight. Admittedly the bar did keep me from checking out the duty free, so even though I dropped a couple of bucks there, it had to have been cheaper than buying an Hermés scarf for someone or possibly a short-wave radio for myself. So, Pan Am's flight 061, a 747-200 christened Clipper Wild Wave, to Washington's Dulles airport was completely uneventful. I managed to sleep through the flight and missed the film, but did more Moët along with Medallions of Game Pate, Filet Mignon served in a wine sauce with chateau potatoes and vegetables followed by a fruit tart. We arrived in the late afternoon and my trip was brought to an end. My beard lasted through the weekend, but on Monday I was back to work, finding myself completely out of place. I needed to be sitting in a Land Rover taking pictures of antelope. Postscript To this day, the trip to Africa was the most amazing of all of my journeys. In a sense, it made me see many things that I would never have been able to see had I stayed in America. I want very much to go back, and I hope that I can arrange a return before 1994. Since the trip, I have the following updates:
Bibliography Aircraft Davies, Ronald Edward George and Machat, Mike. Pan American: An Airline and its Aircraft. New York: Orion Books, 1987. Clipper Class Menu: IAD-689C 9-16-87. New York: Pan American World Airways, 1987. Club World Menu: BA 055 (LHR-NBO-JNB) C/W QA 27389. London: British Airways, 1989. Clipper Class Menu: FRA-516C 12-6-88. New York: Pan American World Airways, 1988. Pan Am In-flight Duty Free Shop 1-15-89. New York: Pan American World Airways, 1989. British Airways: Property Irregularity Report. London: British Airways. United Nations UNTAG Namibia: Free and Fair Elections. Windhoek: Windhoek Printers, 1989. SWA/Namibia Information Service. Road to Independence, The. Windhoek: John Meinert (Pty) Ltd, 1989. Section Liaison Services, Department of Governmental Affairs. Who may Register. Windhoek: Government Printing Office, 1989. Namibia Internal Liaison, Department of Governmental Affairs. Namibia: Facts and Figures - 1988. Windhoek: Government Printing Office, 1989. Internal Liaison, Department of Governmental Affairs. On Record: The SWA/Namibia News Magazine, February-March 1989. Windhoek: John Meinert Printers, 1989. Transcontinental Consultancy (Pty) Ltd. News from South West Africa/Namibia. Windhoek: Star Binders, 1989. Information Service, Department of Governmental Affairs. Namibia: The Economy. Windhoek: John Meinert (Pty) Ltd, 1987. Department of Economic Affairs. Africa's Gem: South West Africa/Namibia. Cape Town: Creda Press, 1985. Massmann, Ursula, Gesellschaft für Wissenschaftliche Entwicklung and Museum (Society for Scientific Development and Museum). Swakopmund: Eine Kleine Chronik. Walvis Bay: Poly Press, 1986. New Nation, The. March. Windhoek, 1989. South Africa Gold Reef City Souvenir Guide. Johannesburg: ABC Press, 1989. Citizen, The. May 8. Johannesburg: Citizen Newspapers (Pty) Ltd, 1989. Africa Barks, Carl. Uncle Scrooge McDuck: His Life & Times. Berkeley: Celestial Arts, 1987. Crowther, Geoff. Africa on a Shoestring. Berkeley: Lonely Planet Publications, 1986. Computers in Africa: Including Telecoms & Office Equipment Update, January/February. London: Africa File Ltd, 1988. Map Afrique: Centre et Sud - Madagascar - Carte Routiére et Touristique - 955. Paris: Pneu Michelin, 1988. Miscellaneous Beer Mats. Hansa Brauerei Ltd. Swakopmund. Beer Mats. Hardenberg. Johannesburg. Bumper Stickers. United Nations Transition Assistance Group. Windhoek. Pricelist for Private Tanning. Swakopmund: Swakopmund Tannery, 1984. Currency Exchange Receipt. Johannesburg: Volkskas Limited (Registered Bank), 1989. Currency Exchange Receipt. Frankfurt: Deutsche Bank, 1989. Reference Academic American Encyclopedia, The, On-line Edition. Danbury, CT.: Grolier Electronic Publishing, 1992. Webster's New Twentieth Century Dictionary -- Unabridged Second Edition. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1979.
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